Shadows
by Morbid DramaQueen10
Summary: Upon his return to London, Sherlock finds a new conspiracy afoot. Balancing this, wedding planning, and a part-time girlfriend is nothing the consulting detective can't handle. Or so he thinks. Sequel to Silhouettes, spanning series 3. Sherlock/OC.
1. Chapter 1

**As promised, the sequel to Silhouettes! **

**Eight chapters, spanning the last two episodes of series 3. There are, of course, a few details that you'll have to ignore - things I mentioned in Silhouettes, such as John's flirting *cough*. Also, if you're interested, there is a bridge chapter at the end of Silhouettes that will help connect the stories a little. **

**-XXX-**

_"Lilac," _Sherlock insists, and John and I exchange a glance. Across the room, Mary and Sherlock share a look of their own_. _This wedding had been a field day for Mary and Sherlock's relationship, a wonderful experience in bonding between them. If they hadn't already both been otherwise engaged – one literally, the other, more informally.

John and I had been bonding as well. Both deemed "useless" in the business of wedding planning, we were often sidelined. Not that either of us minded in the least. Truly. The details that John cared about were minor, and easily enough dealt with. We are usually resigned to the pair of armchairs beside the fire, listening to the pair discuss the pros and cons of lilies verses sunflowers. It's would typically be mind-numbing, but somehow Mary and Sherlock make it quite thrilling.

It's a little odd, spending so much time with people that are nearly a generation above me. Mary and John welcomed me into their circle with open arms, though there is still a little awkwardness. I am painfully young. Sherlock seems to not notice, though there are clear distinctions that mark me from their group. Maybe it's because Sherlock already stays up to ungodly hours, has a severe internet addiction, horrid attachment to his phone, and abuses illegal substances like a seven-year-old pixie sticks.

The four months that have passed since our reunion have been fairly lovely ones, awkward collision of friend groups aside. We're not attached at the hip, by any means, but to go more than 3 days without one another had proved hard. Not that Sherlock would ever say as much – though, if it's been any longer than 72 hours, I have a tendency of finding him propped up somewhere in my flat (a true feat, as I've yet to make him a key). If not at my flat, he turns up, unannounced, at Pinstripes. It's usually a night when I am covering piano and vocals. He'll sit at the bar, nursing a scotch, listening. Then, after my shift, he'll walk with me home, or hail a cab (I'm nowhere near financially stable enough to take a cab unless in the most dire of circumstances, making for yet another awkwardness between us – financial differences), though not always. Some nights I find my elbow being taken up and myself guided towards 221 Baker Street. And, despite my protests of homework or essential readings for classes, I find myself curled against white sheets in the too-clean room on the second floor.

Yet another problem has been the "drop everything when I beckon" attitude that Sherlock has yet to grow out of. I receive series of texts in class, I'm often forced to step out in to the hallway, fearing someone's demise or injury. But this has never been the case – it is only Sherlock, demanding that I meet him at the docks or in some alley or in a library.

_"Whatever for?" _I ask, typing angrily beneath my desk.

_"Case," _is all he replies. _"Come soon. John cannot."_

Of course, I'm also second fiddle to Dr. John Watson. I do not take this fact with the least bit of bitterness. It's actually a bit of relief, I think, to both of us, as now Sherlock has two people on which he can direct his focus. It's a pingpong of sorts. When John tires he bounces Sherlock back to me. This had occurred more frequently than in their former days, I believe, as John is quite preoccupied with his upcoming nuptials. Sherlock has not quite grasped that life when on after his staged death; meaning that more often than not, the ball is in my court.

It's been weird. We know this. And we're working on it. I think.

As Sherlock analyzes the dreadful cousin's envelop, John asks over his paper, "Have you bought a dress yet, Viola?"

"Oh, not quite yet," I say distractedly, caught off guard. I'm preoccupied with a chapter from one of my history books – _Latin American Climate of the 1860s – _and I hardly glance up from the page to answer. "Though I've kept my eye out. I'm rather fond of purples and yellows, but I'd hate to clash with the bridesmaids, and I did find the perfect dress – in white, so that was a flat lot of help."

"Dress for what?" Sherlock doesn't look up from where he sits at the desk.

"The wedding, of course," Mary answers for us, adjusting one of the table settings on the diagrams. "She won't be able to stand with you or sit with the bridal party, but you'll be able to dance together. Sorry, Viola," she adds. "If I could've fit you on, I would've, but our budget only allowed for –"

"Viola isn't going to the wedding," Sherlock interrupts.

The room freezes. There is a palpable tension as myself, John, and Mary 'round on him.

"What do you mean she's not going?" John asks, confusedly. "She's your girlfriend. She's already RSVP'd, has a table setting and everything."

"Viola is not my plus-one," Sherlock says without looking up from the catering menu he's brought up on his laptop.

"When was that decided upon?" I lower my books to cross my arms. "Sherlock?"

"Last week," he says, a little surprised. "In the morning, Thursday, I think – "

It flashes back to me. Sunlight streaming through the curtains. Curve of warmth against me, tugging back crisps sheet back to fit skin against my skin. A nuzzle against my ear –

"I was barely awake!" I squeak angrily. "And we were –" A high flush rises to my cheeks. I can see Mary grinning, while John looks equally embarrassed as me. Something like pleasure flickers across Sherlock's face.

"Does not mean I didn't say it," he adds with the slightest hint of smugness.

"Why?" I ask.

"You'll be a distraction."

I scoff loudly. "Oh yes. I, your –" I cannot bring myself to say the word "girlfriend." Swallowing, I shake my head. "That's utter silliness."

"I agree," says Mary.

"She's not my plus-one," he says with finality.

The three of us who are not high-functioning sociopath exchange a long glance. With a sigh, Mary stands to hug me, though I remain in my chair. She loops arms around my shoulders.

"Of course you can come, Vi. Don't think on it. You'll be at the seat of honor with Greg and Mrs. Hudson and Molly. Oh, and John has this lovely second cousin we can set you up with -"

"She's not going."

"My wedding," Mary snaps shortly before turning back to me. "Of course you'll come, Viola."

"Of course," John echoes. I suspect he was encouraged to say this with a heavy exchange of expressions over my head between himself and his fiancé.

"No, no, if Sherlock doesn't want me," I say icily, glancing over at the man in question. "Then I shan't go."

"We want you," Mary says firmly. "Your indispensable to us now. It's our day, we want you there. Screw Sherlock."

Sherlock doesn't even flinch. "Very well."

Mary turns back to me. "You'd look lovely in blue or pink, my dear. Or perhaps a coral. That would go nicely with your coloring."

With that the subject is changed.

**-XXX-**

When John and Mary leave, Sherlock settles on the couch, sinking slowly with a sigh before planking himself out. When I pass to pick up my purse, intent on leaving, he reaches out both a foot and hand, simultaneously tripping and grabbing me so that I land, flipped, on his chest. Lifting my nose from his sternum, I frown.

"Tea?" he asks. "That would be lovely, thank you."

"Tea for what?" I reply. "Oh, no, I shan't be making you anything, sir. It'd be quite the distraction."

Sherlock pushes back a lock of fallen hair from my forehead, surprised. "You are upset." It's not a question.

"Why would I not be?" I cry. "You've basically told me you do not wish to be seen in public with me."

His brow furrows. "I said no such thing. I merely do not wish for you to distract me. Between my speech and other best man duties I shall have a lot on my plate."

"Then use that big brain of yours and deal," I snap. "It's only for a few hours and it isn't as though anything I might do would truly distract – if anything, I could help you act a little more _human."_

He shifts me so that I rest more comfortably on him, my hips flush with his, feet against his, a usual position for us. One hand plays about my waist, pushing up the hem of my shirt to make wide circles with his cool fingertips. He tucks more hair back behind my ears.

"Of course you are a distraction," he says quietly, nearing to breath against my cheek, inhaling. "I shall need all of my focus on that day, Viola. Should you be there, I don't know can maintain that focus."

"You can. I know you can." My lips move against his cheek.

"It appears I shall have to," he responds dryly. "I am sure Mary will insist that we dance. Perhaps even take photos." A sigh. "You women are determined, are you not?"

"It's her day, not mine, Sherlock."

"Mmmh."

He kisses me, leaning up from the pillow to better reach me. The drawings against my waist cease, as the hand instead curls possessive against the flesh, the other creeping towards a more northern direction. After several glorious minutes, I pull back.

"I have work," I gasp, tugging at various hems and straps in an attempt to make myself presentable. "In an hour. I have to go –"

"It shall take you approximately fifteen minutes to get there, five to prepare yourself for work. You have forty minutes to spare, Viola." Hands wrap around my wrists, pulling me back to the couch.

I swing back for one more kiss, smiling against his lips. Moving back, I let my hands slide upwards to cup sharp cheekbones. "Twenty minutes in rush hour traffic, and ten minutes to get ready when I have to warm up."

"Do I not warm you up?"

"You're not keys," I tease. "I've got to go."

"Coming back?"

I consider, slipping on my shoes. Finals are coming up, and I've got a paper due next Tuesday…."No."

He sits up from the couch. It pleases me to see the top three buttons undone – I did that. "Tomorrow?"

"Perhaps. Though, I'd loathe to be a distraction…."

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock rises to stand before me. "You've got approximately two days before that gets old."

"Two days I shall use well. I must go."

With that, I slip from the apartment, out onto the street. It's drizzling. When I look back up at 221 B, I see Sherlock silhouetted in the window. He's taken up his violin, composing, I suppose. I stand there, in the rain for a moment, look up at him. He does not see me.

**-XXX-**

**Typical rude prick! **

**What are your thoughts? **


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks for all the reviews, favorites, and follows, I greatly appreciate them!**

**-XXX-**

I end up selecting a pretty silk coral shift about three days before the wedding, spotting it while on my way to work. It ends up backstage, hung up beside the line of guitars, where my co-workers admire it. Harry is especially impressed, and he and Tiana badger me on what accessories I'm planning on.

"It's in the country, right?"

"Still very formal," I assure them. "Hats and heels, tails, the whole nine yards."

"Speaking of hats, do you have one?" Harry asks critically. "I'm usually not for it, but if it's something you need, getting one dyed to match will be difficult this soon. And shoes!"

"I was going for nude kitten heels," I tell him. "And I'm not going to wear a hat. It would mess up my hair. Just some pearls, I think, and a nice clutch."

The pearls were a combination of things left by my mother (necklace) and sixteenth birthday gift from my grandparents (simple drop earrings). I rarely have the occasion to wear them, so I am happy to have the chance.

"Oh, that little gold one?" Tiana asks brightly. "That would be lovely clutch!"

"I'd say more champagne," Harry says. He runs a hand over the length of the dress. "And it will look lovely. What about a belt? Do you have a thin little champagne one to match?"

"No, but I can keep an eye out."

"Oh, I have one!" Tiana says. "I'll bring it in tomorrow!"

I thank her, then Harry suggests we start warming up. As we all move to take our places, Harry passes by me. "Is the boyfriend looking forward to your weekend away?" His brows rise up and down suggestively.

Nearly everyone at Pinstripes knows that the famed detective is my…boyfriend-person. He's often the object of staring when at the bar. Marion titters anytime he pays her the slightest bit of mind. Harry is a little less-impressed with Sherlock, but he is interested in the goings-on of our unorthodox relationship. It's his lack of impressed-ness that allows for a more reliable critique.

Settling at my bench, I smile lightly. "He's not, actually. Turns out I am not his one-plus."

Harry's jaw drops. "Oh, love. You've over?"

I snort. "Hardly. Sherlock simply doesn't want to go with me. I would be a _'distraction.'"_

"Well, he's not wrong there." Harry smiles. "In this dress, you'll be killer. But still…not cool. Not classy. But you're still going?"

"Yes." I shake my head, chuckling. "He can't stop me. Mary and John want me there – they're as scandalized as you. So, I'll be there, just not with Sherlock."

"Awkward."

It will be. While I like Mrs. Hudson, Greg Lestrade is relatively unknown to me, and Molly I've only heard about. It shall be all kinds of award. Still, John promises me that they are all good people, all kind and just the slightest touch quirky. "Perfect for you," he had said. I wasn't offended, more so amused than anything.

"I'll deal," I say with a sigh. "At least I'll be dressed to kill, right?"

"Make him pay for it."

**-XXX-**

The day of the wedding arrives. Mrs. Hudson and I travel up together with Greg Lestrade, taking his car to the little country hotel, then the church. On the ride I get to know the detective quite well – he is a good man, solid, loyal. He, too, is surprised to find that I am, as Mrs. Hudson puts it "Sherlock's lady."

At the pre-wedding cocktail I find myself mingling with a mass of people – mostly John's friends, curiously enough. It seems as though no one is here for Mary. I do not remark upon it. When I tired of meeting new people, I go to Mrs. Hudson's side. She's on her first brandy, still, thankfully. Greg is also standing with her, holding a beer.

"When is this supposed to start?" he asks after a sip. Greg strikes me as a causal sort of man. On the two hour-drive I felt myself growing quite akin to the man. Down-to-earth and noble, he's been nothing but kind.

"Two," I answer. "We should probably start for the church within the next couple minutes."

It's a short walk, thankfully. On our way there we come across Molly and her fiancé. Introductions are made. She's a nervous young woman with an equally nervous partner. I do not know what to make of the massive yellow thing in her hair.

"Oh you're Sherlock's –" she begins before stopping herself, biting her lip. "You're his girlfriend! Viola."

"Yes," I say, surprised. "I'm…yes. Hello. Molly, right?"

She takes up my hand, squeezing it. "He's not said a lot about you, to be honest. But I can tell you're pretty special to him."

"Oh, well, thank you?" I reply, embarrassed. "He speaks highly of you."

She knows I am lying. But she smiles, nonetheless, then introduces me to her white-wash fiancé. Tom is a blank sort of man. Uninteresting. Likely an accountant or insurance man.

The ceremony is lovely. Afterwards, I slip outside, just managing to make it past the photographer. I watch, standing with Molly and Tom, as the photos are taken. The wedding party, then bride and groom, then the maid of honor and best man.

Sherlock forces a smile while standing next to the maid of honor – Janine, I think – as the photographer angles himself. He's got his "_I'm-not-even-enjoying-this-a-smidge" _face on. I hide my smirk behind my hand as I listen to Mrs. Hudson and Molly discuss how beautiful everything was – the flowers, the bride, the music. They decide that the weather is perfect and that groom looked appropriately excited.

We move to the sunroom for the reception. I'm seated with the group I'd sat with in the church. Greg sits next to me, looking around curiously.

"This must be mostly John's crowd. I've met a lot of them before, at his birthday."

"There's no one here for Mary?"

"There may be," he allows. "But…a good majority are friends and family of John."

Something strikes me. "Is Harry here?"

"No." A slight frown.

The food is served. From where he sits at the head table, Sherlock is as stoic as ever. He's scanning the room, letting his gaze linger on a person occasionally. We're both firmly ignoring one another. His eyes only flicker towards me once or twice. I remain focused on Greg, who is more than pleased to hold my and Mrs. Hudson's attention.

It's time for speeches. And that's when everything goes to hell -

**-XXX-**

Hell, it seems after the fact, is a bit of an exaggeration. Not being a part of the wedding party, we don not get full details of what, precisely occurs once Mary, Sherlock, and John left the reception, but it's without a doubt quite exciting. Greg returns to the table in a high energy, the same kind John and Sherlock get when they've successfully resolved a case. We all prod him for details.

"No more fussing," he scolds. "Let's enjoy the rest of the day. It's John and Mary's wedding, we can get into the gritty bits later. Let's just say we've prevented a murder."

"Murder?" Mrs. Hudson gasps.

Lestrade casts a worried eye around. The general discourse of the room, however, has muffled Mrs. Hudson's shock, so we go unnoticed.

"Everything is fine," he insists. "Let's just go on. Enjoy the wedding. Look, the cake is about to be cut."

Everything else proceeds as normal. There is the usual checklist of traditions – tossing of the bouquet and garter, the silly cake and wine exchange, toasts. I pull reluctantly into the bouquet toss crowd by Mary, who pointedly eyes Sherlock as she tugs me forward with an iron grip. I manage, thankfully, to avoid catching the flowers.

Sherlock plays his composition. It's familiar to me – I'd heard him working on it for the past few weeks. It's strangely sad for the occasion, yet, as I'd told him, hopeful.

"That is an odd adjective to apply to a waltz," he told me, brows raised.

"Well, it's the feeling I received. Somber…yet with great hope. Wherever did this come from?"

He had shrugged. "It was simply all that I had been feeling for the two of them. Put into notes."

Everyone applauds. There are a few tears among the group. John and Mary simply lean against one another, perfectly content.

Soon it's evening, and Mary and John are sharing their first dance as husband and wife. From where I stand against the wall, I watch them dreamily sway in time with the music. John's quite awkward, really, but his wife evens him out with her good humor. Despite their less-than-graceful combined manner, the look of sheer love they're sharing is enough to make them the most handsome couple.

When everyone is allowed onto the dance floor, Greg takes Mrs. Hudson out for a spin to a fast-paced tune. She's still got the moves, to our surprise, and nearly wears him out. After, he finds me and asks for a dance, which I grant him. He's quite good - not exactly graceful, but light on his feet. It probably helps that he's a trained detective used to running after crooks. We find ourselves near Molly and Tom, then the bride and groom. Everyone is in high spirits. It's a wedding. Who couldn't be happy?

Apparently Sherlock. Glancing around, I see him edging his way through the crowd. Moving, I think, towards the door. I pause, craning my neck to see him.

"Should you go?"

I look up, startled. Lestrade is peering down at me, amused.

"Go on," he says, nodding towards the garden. "He needs you now. His best friend has just gotten married."

"If it were anyone else that'd be a good thing," I say dryly.

"Yes, but this is Sherlock," the detective replies simply. "Go on."

I slip through the crowded hall, pushing past the other party-goers, smiling as easily as I can. Finally, after much twisting and turning, I make it outside relatively intact. He stands on the path, past the fountain, beneath the big tree. I smooth my skirt as I approach.

"The party is inside, if you didn't notice."

"Is that what that atrocious noise is?"

"You'd know if you stuck around long enough. Why are you out here?" I lean against the trunk of the tree, observing his profile.

He grunts.

Digging in my clutch, I withdraw a fresh pack of cigarettes and a lighter. "Want one?"

Glancing at the pack, he lazily extends a hand. I give him a lit cigarette, then light one for myself.

"Want to walk?"

We begin taking a turn about the garden, silent. I have not smoked in a long while. It was something I tried quite a bit in my youth, but the novelty wore off soon enough. It was lucky I'd thought to bring a pack at Mycroft's suggestion.

"No doubt," he'd drawled when he had "spontaneously" met me in the park last weekend. "That he'll be needing them."

We've stopped before the roses. I examine the full summer blooms, while Sherlock seems to look on, through the plants. Both of us taking long, heavy drags, we alternately release streams of silvery smoke. They drift upwards, fading into the night like thin ribbons sinking in black water.

After a time, I venture to ask, "Are you alright?"

A frown, though he does not look at me. "Why should I not be?"

"I'm sure it's been quite the day for you." I drop the filter, stamping out the glowing red tip. "It's okay. You don't have to…tell me anything. I just wanted to make sure that you're…if you need me, or anything, let me know. Sherlock."

He looks at me, still frowning, though it's a touch softer now. "I assure you, I am fine."

With a purse of my lips, I lightly touch his elbow. "I believe you."

He allows my touch. Without a word, he drops his smoldering cigarette, backing away from the flowerbed. I watch as he steps away. Pausing in a half-step, the detective turns back, gesturing. Needing no further invitation, I follow.

We move back into the hotel, past the party, into the lobby, up the stairs, down a corridor. I've no clue where we're going. Sherlock soundlessly produces a key when we stop before a door at the end of the hall. He opens the door swiftly, motioning for me to move inside.

Once in, I curl upon the bed – king sized – toeing my shoes off. Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"I can hardly believe you're tired," he says, crossing to the window to peer out. "After a day of sitting."

"I've been dancing the last hour," I say defensively, though I have little energy behind me.

His lips curl. Sherlock replaces the curtains, turning to me, brows raised. I sit up, yawning, holding out a hand. He comes to me, standing at the edge of the mattress. Hands go to my hair. No doubt mussing up my chignon. I place a hand on his waist, closing my eyes as I lean into his stomach.

"Was I such as distraction?"

"Yes," he assures me lowly. "Absolutely."

I tilt my head upwards, smiling softly. "Good."

He cups my face, bending to kiss me. Deepening the kiss, I scoot backwards on the bed, allowing Sherlock to climb onto the mattress after me. My fingers sink into his curls, massaging his scalp as his nose skims my collarbone and neck. When he reaches the spot where my neck and shoulders meet, he tenderly bites the flesh, withdrawing a breathy noise from me. I can practically hear him keen with smugness.

The positive thing about sleeping with a high-functioning sociopathic consulting detective is that he's absolutely brilliant at reading preferences. Being observant is put to good use between the sheets. I'd never openly compliment him, though – he's got a big enough head. I can already imagine his smug smile.

Soon enough, clothes are being clumsily removed. I nearly hit myself in the head removing Sherlock's belt, forcing me to break out into muffled giggles. He almost strangles himself in the haste to remove his lavender tie – "Fetching," I'd said snidely, and he snorted in between trying to disentangle himself. Later, my zipper gets stuck, leading to a five minute solving session. Sherlock nearly breaks the damn thing before I realize the old trick of pulling it back up, readjusting, then trying again works. Though frustrated, we somehow manage to laugh when it's all over.

Laying next to him, I ask, "Are we truly this inept?"

"I don't know about you, but I would hardly describe myself as such." His brows rise.

I press my forehead to him. "As graceful as you can be, Mr. Consulting Detective, that was a positive train wreck."

"Graceful?"

Rolling my eyes, I kiss him. "Yes, yes, don't get a big head over it. You're still not completely forgiven, you know."

"Pity," he says dryly. Hands move to my waist, turning me closer, locking me into place. They're warm hands. Firm. Like roots, they anchor me to him, keeping me against him. The familiarity of skin is simply…enough. I don't know how else to describe it. "Whatever shall I do to reclaim myself into your good graces?"

I grin. "I could think of a few things."

**-XXX-**

** Thoughts? I thought it might be nice to give Sherlock a little comfort after the Watson's wedding. **

** If you're a LOTR fan, I've also been posting another piece, Keeper. Give it a look-see if you're interested! **

**Reviews would be grand! **


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

**There wasn't much of a response to the last chapter, but I'm going to keep posting regardless. **

**-XXX-**

It's nearly a month later that the Watsons announce their pregnancy. Sherlock had, of course, thoughtlessly let it slip long before, though, one afternoon as I bummed around 221B.

"Sherlock, you can't simply tell me that," I scolded, shocked.

"Why ever not?" he asked, frowning into his laptop.

"Because, it's sensitive. What if the baby doesn't make it? Miscarriages are common this early on."

"Hm."

I shook my head. "You can't just announce that. It's their news, anyways."

He glanced up. "Isn't this what couples do? Share 'secrets' and scandal?"

Blinking, I rolled over on the couch to better face him. "Lord, are you subscribing to common behaviors of mated humans?"

Sherlock didn't answer.

Sitting in the parlor, listening to a beaming John and Mary tell me and Mrs. Hudson of their good fortune, I cast an eye towards Sherlock, who is standing at the window, quietly observing the room. He returns my gaze levelly, tilting his head. I purse my lips briefly before turning back to the couple.

"—so wonderful!" Mrs. Hudson enthuses. "You'll make beautiful parents. Oh, this is good news indeed. Will you be staying in London?"

The pair exchange a glance.

"For now, yes," Mary says. "Though, we might be looking for a new space. More room, you know. A single-bedroom is a little cramped for three."

"Of course."

"You've already started looking. Near Bayswater, I'd say." It's not a question. John simply looks at Sherlock with raised brows. He doesn't bother in posing his own question.

"Nice neighborhood," I say quickly, turning to Mary. "Let me know if you need help with anything? Shopping, showers, painting the nursery, building a crib…you name it." Lord knows Sherlock won't be volunteering his aid. He'd probably be useless at building a crib anyways, never mind painting.

"Thank you, dear," Mary replies fondly, patting my hand. "I certainly shall."

"How far along are you?"

"Just about three months, according to the doctor."

Mrs. Hudson beams. "Oh, so exciting! We shall have to host a shower for you. Invite a few of the girls from the office? I'm sure there is a lot you could use. It is your first!"

Sherlock comes to sit on the arm next to me, both of us listening to the shower planning. I at least make an effort to appear engaged. Sherlock, on the other hand, could not look more disengaged. When he begins reaching for the newspaper on the coffee table, my hand finds his, squeezing sharply. _"Goodness, behave." _John eyes us from where he sits near the fire. We both smile reassuringly – though I have no doubt Sherlock's expression is far more suspicious than mine.

**-XXX-**

It's early August when I return to Sussex for a week-long visit with my father. Term will be starting shortly, and I wanted the chance to see him before midterms in October. The exact day of my return marks the anniversary of me moving to London a year ago – a fact my father will surely not have overlooked.

The train ride is nice enough. Peaceful. Ever since being kidnapped and help hostage in a train station, I've admittedly been a little wary of them. But this wasn't underground, and there was no cause for me to be kidnapped today. That is, unless Sherlock hasn't gone and made himself another enemy who is keen on terrorizing him through me.

Dad meets me at the station with a buoyant Hugo in tow. The Labrador jumps up upon seeing me, pawing at my knee after I tell him to settle. Hugs are exchanged, my luggage found, and we set off for the car. Hugo curls into the middle seat, head in my lap as his tail thumps against Dad's elbow. The twenty minute drive from the station to our house lends a good chunk of time for talking. After discussing the fairness of the weather, we move onto less-safe topics. Such as school. And Sherlock.

Any tiny complaint, any negative comment regarding my schooling my father jumps on as a reason to return home. So I very carefully describe my classes for the coming semester. He doesn't ask any questions, merely listens. Once I have navigated through those waters, I switch focus.

"How has business been lately? "

"Fair," he answers shortly. "Could've used your help, certainly." I have to prod him for details. Did our usual guests come? Was there any trouble? More or less people than usual? He answers each in turn, eyes never straying from the road.

When we reach the house he quickly goes to make tea. I follow, determined to hold a descent conversation.

"What's up?" I ask when he places a mug before me.

Leaning against the counter, Dad simply looks at me. "What?"

"You're being quiet. Something bothering you?"

"I'm just a little tired, Vi. Besides, I want to hear about your life. You know there's not much going on in mine." The trace of sadness evident in his tone makes me want to cross the room to hug him. Instead, I sip my tea.

"I don't have much to report beyond what I've already told you," I say. "I've just been working, really."

"How is your boyfriend?"

It's an abrupt question. I pause with the mug aloft, halfway to my mouth. "Uh. He's fine. Keeping…busy. With cases."

My father's lips tighten. "Indeed. I'm always reading about his exploits. Did you know he was involved in a small apartment explosion last week? Three people in the hospital."

Taken aback, I take a moment to gather myself. "Yes, he was on a case. He went to stop the bomb. But the explosion, the people…that wasn't his fault. He just happened to be there."

"Hm." Dad turns to the sink, looking out the window. I set down my mug, crossing to stand next to him.

"He doesn't take me on any of these case," I assure him. "He doesn't think I can handle myself –"

"Finally, a perspective we both share," Dad murmurs. I ignore him.

"—but he'd not put me in harm's way. I promise."

Still, Dad is not persuaded. "I just worry," he says quietly. "That he's a little too dangerous for you. He's older. He's going a million miles a minute, followed by the press…Vi, you're young. You need someone just a little more your speed."

"I think that's my decision, Dad."

"Vi. He's a ticking bomb. He ran out on his life only a few years ago. Who is to say he isn't going to again? I've read the papers."

"Dad," I say softly, putting a hand on his shoulder. "I know. I'm not being foolish about this. I swear. You have to trust me. Or, at least, respect my decision."

At an impasse, we stand together, both looking out the window. He sighs, leaning against the counter. I rest my head on his shoulder with a sigh of my own. This week was not getting off to a great start.

**-XXX-**

The next day I take Hugo for a long walk along the beach. It's a grey sort of day. The water is the color of green iron, the sky is full of rolling, heavy clouds. It's melancholy. I'm not sure how I feel about it. Hugo seems happy enough to crash about the waves, bounding down the sandy stretch of shore with his tongue lolling out. We play fetch for a while, then I lead us back up to the path. He's very happy that I'm home. His tail wags so much I fear it may fall off.

Back up at the house, we find Dad in the garden. He's weeding the roses, wearing a wide-brimmed hat, humming to himself. He pauses when he sees us, bending down to pat his knees. Hugo rushes to him. Panting, the dog leans against his leg.

"Have a nice walk?"

"Yeah," I say. "The beach seems cleaner."

My dad scoffs. "That's your imagination."

I shrug, bending to help him tug up a few pesky, non-domesticated plants. Dad shifts to accommodate me. We work in silence for a few minutes, Hugo frequently getting in our way. I playfully shove his snot away when he gets in my face, sniffing anxiously. I see the corners of my father's mouth turn up in a hint of a smile.

After we're finished weeding, my father invites me to the garden to pick a few tomatoes. He's planning on making pasta tonight, and some fresh tomatoes would make a lovely sauce. I select a few plump pieces of fruit, then bring them inside for a wash, and start a pot to boil. When he comes in, he takes over the cooking. I sit at the island with a glass of rosè to watch him work. We're relatively quiet. Tense.

I ask about the house, the village, carefully avoiding any topics that might lead back to me. Or, more importantly, Sherlock.

Dinner is equally tense, and we eventually we simply fall into silence, the only noise being the scraping of silverware against our plates, dishing clinking, chewing. We then retire to the parlor with steaming mugs of tea, me to a novel, Dad focused on the evening news. In about an hour I go to bed.

Five more days…_"I hope the rest of the week doesn't follow the same pattern," _I think as I wash my face. Though, perhaps that would not be a terrible thing – not debates about moving to London. Or Sherlock. Or my mother….

I have not spoken of the woman I know to still be alive. Part of me wishes to confront my father – did he know what she did for a living? Why didn't he tell me anything about her? Did he ever reach out, after the last time she came to see me? Or did he just not care?

Crawling into my childhood bed, I glare at the ceiling. As usual, my life is filled with more questions than answers – and as usual, it's partially Sherlock's fault.

**-XXX-**

Two more days pass. It's after a snide comment regarding leasing my mother's house that I snap. We're eating breakfast, and I've just fielded a call from my mother's lawyer regarding the people renting her house. Dad's face got very pinched. "They're taking advantage of you."

"My business," I say tersely.

His face reddens slightly. "Vi."

"She left it to me. If you think that I shouldn't keep it, keep that to yourself. It's my mother's inheritance that's letting me go to school and live in London."

This was not the thing to say. My father's hands curl into fists against he wood of the tabletop. "I was sending you to school, Viola," he says sharply.

"And you were keeping me back," I reply. "I wanted something different."

"I don't think she was wrong in giving it to you," he says lowly. "If anything, your mother owed you that much. Irene neglected you the better part of your life. But that doesn't mean I think you should _keep _any of her things. Keeping it is keeping her. Sell it all off, Vi, sever the connection."

I shake my head. "You don't understand. _You _want distance. You're angry at her, and I can't blame you. But I never knew her. Excuse me for looking for something – anything – to understand her."

"You won't, Viola," he warns. "She wasn't to be understood. She was a flighty, foolish – all the better that she stayed away."

I stare. "Stay away? Or kept away?"

He doesn't answer. My father looks down at his dinner plate, swallowing.

"Dad. Did you…did you keep her away from me?"

"She didn't try too often," he says. "Just a few times. I let her once, when you were ten. But damn, Vi, she wasn't going to come back. She was never going to be something constant in your life. So, why do that to you? Why bring her into your life just to have her in and out sporadically, with no intention be consistent, or no care for your needs, your feelings. Why let her affect you like that? So, yes, Viola, I kept her away."

I cannot speak. For what feels like an age, I stare at him. Finally, I croak. "She was my mother."

"She would have hurt you." His brow furrows. "Just as she hurt me."

I stand, shaking my head. "That's what parents do! They hurt their children, but knowing her would have made saying goodbye just a bit easier."

He rises. "Vi –"

But I'm already moving towards the stairs. "I need to go. I – I can't stay here."

"Viola, you can't –"

I turn to him, halfway up the first flight. "Not now, Dad. I've got to go. I'm angry and upset and I can't be here with you right now. If I stay, I may never come back when I leave."

That causes him to freeze. Taking this chance, I flee up the stairs to pack my bag. I'm out in less than fifteen minutes, to the train station in twenty – thankful that I'd remember to clean my bike earlier in the week. I don't say goodbye, just go. It takes a few minutes to haggle with the station mattress to switch my ticket. Once I've got that straightened out, I settle on one other benches. The next train to London leaves in an hour and twenty minutes, so I've got some time to catch my breath. I take a moment to text Dad to reassure him that I made it alive. Then, I being typing out a text to Sherlock to let him know that I'd be home by evening.

However, I pause. If I tell Sherlock, he'll immediately begin deducing why I've decided to cut my visit short. He'll ask questions. Or worse – not ask questions. And if he should decide he doesn't care enough to ask, he'll come over or make me come to 221B; I won't be alone. And I think I want to be alone. So I hit the backspace bar on my phone until the message is gone. I put my phone away. And, with nothing left to do, I stare at the empty tracks.

**-XXX-**

The train arrives at noon, then sets off at 12:15. It's only about a two-hour ride, so I settle in with my headphones, listening to a Wagner opera, picking out various lines of music. Closing my eyes to absorb the notes, I let my mind drift into a purely blank state. A clean slate. I prop my head against the car's window, letting the motion of the train against the track's, Wagner's melodies, and my own peaceful mind entrance me into a state of tranquility.

When I'm jolted from my daze, we're pulling into the station. I gather my things, exit the train, then head home.

Sometime around 6, I receive a text from my father, wondering if I've made it home. I reassure him that I am perfectly fine, then turn back to my book. At 6:15, my phone beeps again.

**Sherlock : **_"When did you get home?"_

Frowning, I stare at the text for several minutes before composing a response.

**Me: **_"How did you know?"_

**Sherlock: **_"Unimportant. Come to 221B."_

**Me: **_"No, I'm exhausted."_

I'm mildly annoyed that he doesn't even bother to inquire after why I came back early or how I'm doing. Another tone, and I grab the phone from the arm of my chair with a growl.

**Sherlock: **_"Come."_

I don't reply. Ten minutes later, another text.

**Sherlock: **_"I require your assistence."_

Another fifteen minutes. The beeping sounds shriller than before.

**Sherlock: **_"Viola. I need you."_

With a growl, I rise from the chair, moving to the bedroom to throw off my sweatpants to put on some real clothes. _"Damn manipulative bastard."_

**-XXX-**

To my great surprise, it's an impassive Sherlock who answers the door, not a flustered Mrs. Hudson. I blink up at him. Without a word, he turns and heads up to his flat. I follow arms crossing as I enter the parlor.

"Why did you text me? What do you need?"

He sits on the sofa, crossing his legs to peer at me, brows raised. "I think the more appropriate question is, what is it you need, Viola?"

Confused, I blink at him. "What?"

He rolls his eyes. "You came home early. Clearly something went sour."

"How did you know?"

Sherlock shrugs. "I have my ways." At my incredulous expression, he smiles lightly. "Homeless network. Someone found it rather interesting to see you at King's Cross. Thought they would send me a quick text." He pronounces the word "text" with an upward thrill, lips twisting. "Your visit home went south, so you returned three days early. You didn't text me, or any of your friends – " I open my mouth to retort, but shut it, deciding I'd be better off not knowing. "—meaning you'd rather be alone. And yet…you came."

"You said you needed me."

"Which means you decided that my need was greater than your wants. Admirable. So. What do you need, Viola?"

I sag. "I don't know."

He extends a hand. "Come here."

Without any further discussion, I sink onto the cushions next to him, allowing myself to be folded against the lanky detective's chest. I push my nose into the center of his sternum, breathing in his scent. His arms rise, hands on my shoulder, thumb drawing tiny circles against my shoulder. I close my eyes. Sherlock hums quietly. I allow myself to drift into calm, frustration seeping from my body the more I fall into the doze.

**-XXX-**

**Slightly fluffy, no regrets!**

**Questions comments, concern, I taken 'em all! Please leave your thoughts below! **


	4. Chapter 4

**This doesn't really fit directly within the plot of series three, but it's semi-important. **

**-XXX-**

Another day, another text. Some weeks, it's only through Sherlock's demanding summons that I know he's alive. They're like…invitations to dates. Except, it's not dinner and a movie, but maybe a cup of tea I made myself before a chase through Kensington Gardens – and it's not Sherlock I am chasing.

**Sherlock: **_"What are you doing today?"_

**Me: **_"Many important things that don't involve mystery cases."_

**Sherlock: **_"Somehow I doubt that."_

I frown. He's right, but he doesn't need to know that. I'm free until about five, when I'm due to play at _Pinstripes _until about eleven. I'd planned on using that time to catch up on reading, maybe practice a few new pieces, watch a bit of TV. Nothing too exciting. Which is precisely what I wanted – a bit of peace and quiet.

Since John had settled into domestic life, Sherlock had been…edgy. He was less inclined to pull Dr. Watson into his shenanigans – likely out of some unexpected respect for the man's new family – and far more likely to persuade me into joining him. In the last month alone I'd ran from several people wanting to shoot me, broken into three residence, and retched at the sight of puddle of someone's sticky red-black blood. In one of those instances I'd even felt a little woozy at the sight of my own blood….

**-XXX-**

Somehow, we'd landed in the sewers – well, the rain sewers that run along the street, so while they're gross it's not nearly as bad as they could be. We were chasing a few members of a local gang. They'd been causing trouble, breaking into houses without stealing anything or committing any vandalism. It was stumping the Yard, meaning Lestrade came to Sherlock, a little desperate. We'd been watching the news, incidentally, listening to a report of the latest break in, when he rang.

He sunk on the couch, hands folded, clearly unhappy that he'd had to come down here to beg aid from the detective. "They're scaring people."

"People are always scared," Sherlock scoffed. He was buried in the paper, pointedly not looking at Lestrade. "That's nothing new."

"it's a violation of their privacy and sense of security, but most importantly, it doesn't make sense. They don't take _anything_."

"Then they must be taking something you miss."

"No." Lestrade shook his head. "There's something we're missing, but that's not it."

"Of course there is something you are missing," Sherlock agreed. "But I highly doubt you need me to find it. Look harder."

"We have –"

It takes another thirty minutes and three cups of coffee before Sherlock agreed to check out the surveillance tapes and photos of the crime scene. The next day, we found ourselves chasing a few of the ruffians.

That's when I was grabbed. Sherlock had run ahead, his legs longer and stride greater, meaning I was left behind. We turned a corner, and suddenly, he was gone. There were four tunnels diverting from where we're turned, and I'd missed seeing where he'd turned. The echoing splashes of hardly gave me a hint as to where he might be, but I peered down each tunnel nervously anyways, hoping I might spot him. It was when I turned my back, passing one tunnel, that I felt hands on my waist. One slams over my mouth as I started to scream. I struggled, pushing at the hands, nails tearing at the flesh of the one who was pinning me.

Sherlock doesn't find me for nearly an hour. By that time, I'd mouthed off enough to be slapped a number of times. When Sherlock cast a shadow down the tunnel in which the kids had gathered, I'm hauled to my feet, pressed again against the back of the one who'd found me – Cutter, he was called by the others, a kid with several bad, inky tattoos and a brutal scar twisting along his upper forearm, which was easy to see as he wore a shirt with the sleeves cut off. He held me tightly, flicking open a pocket knife that wasn't particularly impressive until it was pressed against my throat. My breath caught when I felt the cool metal's pressure. I suddenly comprehended the nickname.

"Come to get your bitch?" Cutter inquired lowly.

Sherlock advanced slowly. He was unarmed, I think. He was not looking at me. He did not answer right away, evaluating the group of three young men. They leer back. Cutter's arm tighten. My eyes were as wide as dinner plates.

"No," Sherlock finally says. His eyes flash. "I've come to take care of you. Viola is just a bonus."

Cutter shifts me. "Viola. Pretty name for a chit." One had rose to my right breast, squeezing. I closed my eyes, disgusted. "You shouldn't let such a pretty thing wander alone down here, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock's hand twitched. "She's usually not so adept at getting lost," he replied easily. "But I thank you for finding her for me. Now, if you wouldn't mind, I'll be collecting her from you –" He reached out with one hand. "We have other business to speak of, and I'm afraid she'll only serve as a distraction."

The punk nosed my ear, tongue dragging along the shell. I contained a tremble. "Oh, no, Mr. Holmes. I do think she'll simply sweeten the deal. I can stand to hang on to her for a little while longer."

With a sneer, the detective reached into his coat to pull out a revolver. Cocking it at the boy's head, he tilts his head. "I think not. Be a good man, pass her over."

Cutter jerked suddenly, a thick hand replacing the knife, forcing me to extend my neck upwards. The blade was pressed to my side, where he pushed aside my coat and shirt.

"I'll gut her before the bullet hits my brain," he hissed.

"Very well," Sherlock replied evenly, redirecting his aim, firing into Cutter's foot.

He howled loudly, releasing me – though, not before he'd stuck his knife into my side, leaving a long gash to blossom red. I released a gasp of breath. Sherlock was on me in an instant, catching me before I fell to the ground. When I was in his arm, he held the gun up again between the three others. Cutter lay moaning just a little ways from us.

"I suggest you get him some immediate medical attention," the detective stated, eyes flicking between the three standing punks. "If you have any desire to see him walk again."

Shuffling quickly, two grabbed Cutter, and begin hobbling away as fast as possible. Sherlock didn't lower the revolver until they were out of sight. Then he swiftly dropped the gun to tend to me. My hands were pressed against the wound. He pulled them back, and I gasped when he prods the skin. Something flashes in his eyes.

Without a word to me, he pulls his cellphone out of his jacket pocket, dialing with quick fingers. "Prestoria Avenue and Coppermill Lane. My girlfriend is bleeding out. We're in the rain drains. I need an ambulance…."

Pain shot through me rapidly. The feeling of warm liquid spreading across my skin sends a wave of nausea through me. Sherlock's hand slips into mine, the other going to my brow.

"Viola." His voice commanded my eyes. I felt myself beginning to tremble. Shock. Shock was setting in. I was getting cold. "Viola, help is coming. I need you to breath. Stay calm."

"Sh-sherlock." My teeth chattered. "It _hurts." _

He stroked my hair. "You're going to be fine. It's not a bad cut. Stay with me. Viola. Stay with me."

I breathed shakily, trying to draw calm into myself. "I-I-I'm sorry. I should have – should have kept –"

"Quite," he hissed. "Save your strength."

My hand tightened against his. Together, we focus on breathing, eyes connected until we hear sirens ahead. I'm carried out of the tunnels and loaded onto an ambulance. Sherlock is nearly barred from riding with me, but I stretch out for him, despite the fact that the meds were making it difficult to speak. The emergency respondents reluctantly allowed him to sit beside me.

Later, I woke in the stark white hospital room of St. Bart's, alone. I could hear raised voices outside – the quiet kind, the sort of low yelling people do when they're in a library or other quiet place attempting not to disturb anyone. Except, they were failing miserably.

It takes me a few moments to recognize the voice as John Watson's.

"—this is precisely what happens when you drag people into your dangerous schemes, Sherlock!" He was angry. "It's one thing to ask me to join you, but Viola? She's not like you and me, she's a civilian, she's young and –"

Mary's voice cuts across her husband's, soothing. "He couldn't have known, John. They were some punk kids."

"Punk kids in a _gang. _We're lucky she walked away with a few stitches. She could have –" I heard John take a breath. "Her father will have a cow, he'll come up here himself."

"Only if she see fit to tell him," Sherlock replied. He was very quiet. "I doubt she will. She's shown no indication of wishing to introduce us."

"That would hardly be the purpose, Sherlock." John sounded as though he was at the end of his rope.

"It would likely deter her from telling him." A pause. "She's awake, if you'd like to go in."

"How do you know that?" Mary inquired, surprised.

"She's probably tired," John said. "Sherlock, you ought to go in."

"Nonsense. Go on."

Amusement colored Mary's tone. "Oh, he knows he's in the doghouse, John. See, he doesn't want to go in alone. Thinks he can't get yelled at if we're in there…."

They entered quietly. I turn towards the door, blinking slowly. Mary approaches first, taking up my hand. I squeezed gently.

"How are you?" she asked softly. Sherlock had moved to my other side, sitting on the chair.

"As good as one can be in this place," I said, one hand moving to my side to touch the bandages beneath which sat my stitches.

Behind her, John smiled. "Good. We were worried. You can't let this one – " He jerked a thumb towards Sherlock. " – drag you into these dangerous situations."

"It wasn't his fault," I protested mildly. "Besides, I wanted to go." Beside me, Sherlock shifted. I couldn't look at him. Not yet. "It's not so bad, really. The stitches and morphine are the worst of it. How much longer am I stuck here?"

"Overnight," John told me. He placed a hand on Mary's shoulders, squeezing. "You were hit pretty hard in the head, they want to make sure there isn't any bleeding or anything of that nature."

I sighed. "I suppose it could be worse." I sat up, flinching before I settled. The stitches burn briefly.

The Watson peered at me, concerned. Mary asked, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah." I smiled. "Just a little…uncomfortable."

"Should I get a nurse?""

"I'm fine," I assure them. "Actually, I think I'm going to try to sleep. My head hurts a little."

The both gave me light hugs, promising to visit after I've been discharged. John paused before heading out the door, glancing pointedly at Sherlock, who has not moved from his post beside my bed. John gestured to the door. Sherlock shook his head slowly. A silent conversation passed between the two men. Finally, John rolled his eyes, threw up his hands, and followed an amused Mary out the door.

Alone at least, we did not speak for several minutes. Then, Sherlock reached out, offering one pale hand. I accepted it wordlessly, letting the joined limbs fall to the blanket. I turned my head from my pillow to look at him. He was as impassive as ever. I wasn't expecting anything else.

When I began to fade into sleep, Sherlock rose, brushing my forehead with a gentle thumb. I close my eyes, nuzzling into his touch. Anything to purge the memory of -

The thought of another's hands upon me, touching my breast, hips, and neck brought bile to my stomach. I lurched forward. Sherlock, insightful as ever, had the bedpan ready. He watched me retch for several minutes, stroking my back. My stiches burned again, but I shove the pain aside. After I finish, Sherlock handed me a glass of water. I drained it, rubbing my stitches again, falling back against the pillow.

"Don't think of him," Sherlock said softly.

I looked up sharply. "How –"

"You've never had adverse side effects from painkillers before, and you only grew nauseous when I touched you. I took a guess."

"It was a right one."

"I know." He sighed. "I'm sorry, Viola."

"You couldn't have known."

"I should not have let you fall behind," he said.

"Maybe," I agreed. "But I'm mostly fine. It could have been worse."

He winced. "Yes. It could have."

I reached for him. "Sherlock, Sherlock, I am fine. This wasn't your fault." He accepted my hands, pressing his lips to my knuckles. "I'm not upset with you."

A sigh. He was being oddly pensive. With a squeeze of his hands, I settled further into the bed. My eyes were feeling heavy.

"Sleep," he murmured. "I'll see you tomorrow. I'm supposed to take you home."

"Mmmm," I mumbled. I was surprised he volunteered for it. It's not a Sherlock-like thing to do, to bother with delivering injured people from the hospital. My eyes close slowly, fighting to stay open and failing. Weariness and pain medications help slide me into a deep sleep.

**-XXX-**

Since then, I've been wary to join Sherlock on any of his adventures – not necessarily because I believe he might let me down, but because I simply do not feel as though I can keep up. I faltered once – it could happen again. Sherlock, however, was going on as though nothing had changed, much to John's protest. But he was not to be chagrined.

Nearly three weeks have passed since the incident, and as I sat with my fingers hovering over the screen, considering what I might reply with. While I'm thinking, another text lands in my inbox.

**Sherlock: "**_Come on. You know you're having a dreadfully dull time, hanging around your apartment._ "

**Me: **_"How do you know I'm not out doing something crazy with friends, or working? I could be doing anything!"_

**Sherlock: **_"But you're not. Meet you at 221B in a half hour."_

It's not a request nor a question. More like a command. With a sigh I rise from my bed and cross to the closet, preparing to dress is something other than sweatpants.

**-XXX-**

When I arrive at the flat, he's not even ready. Still in his dressing gown, Sherlock is parked firmly in front of his laptop's screen, his face bathed in blue-ish white light. He doesn't look up when I slip in, sinking on to the sofa with an incredulous expression.

"You're not dressed."

"Mmmmh, no," he agrees. "I wasn't sure how long you would take."

I roll my eyes. "So you were going to wait to get ready until I got here. Of course. Naturally."

Over the computer, he grinned. "I'm glad you understand."

With a sigh, I rise, planning to make myself some coffee for the wait. When I drift back into the parlor, he's still at the computer. I perch myself on the arm of his chair. He's currently browsing the BBC news site. When he finds nothing of interest, he shuts the laptop, setting it on the ottoman. He peers up at me, brows raised.

"Are you getting ready?"

"Maybe in a little while."

Taking the hint, I place a hand on top of his head, lightly scratching his scalp before twisting my fingers into the messy coal-black curls. "I hardly think we have time, Sherlock," I say sternly. "Did you have some grand adventure planned for us?"

His fingers migrate from where they rest on his knees to my legs, dancing upwards, resting on my kneecaps. "Oh, I'd hardly call it an adventure," he drawls. "More of a fieldtrip. But yes, we've got plenty of times, I assure you."

I scoot to better face him. Bringing me up one better, Sherlock takes the other arm of the chair so that we're leaning in, face-to-face. His brows rise, head tilted slightly. I purse my lips, a little too amused for my own liking. I draw my hands together, propping them up on my knees then setting my chin on my knuckles, watching the consulting detective intently. With a sudden grin, Sherlock shifts forward to brush a light kiss on my lips. I respond instantly, leaning in to deepen the contact. I can feel him smile against me, which reminds me of my vague annoyance. Making to pull back, I find myself held into place by Sherlock's hands, which have traveled to the back of my neck, one resting at the base of my skull.

It doesn't take long for us to stumble towards the bedroom.

**-XXX-**

Dressing again, I ask Sherlock, who still sits on the bed, "So, what did you have in mind? Aside from this, I mean."

"Planning sex, Viola? Really, you make me sound so stiff, structured." The consulting detective grins. "Molly called. Interesting corpse, down at St. Bart's. Some strange lacerations and contusions."

My stomach turns. I pause from pulling my shirt over my head. "Oh…I think I've had enough of Bart's for the month," I say quietly. I finish with my shirt, then stoop to put on my shoes.

From the bed, Sherlock frowns. "You've never been sensitive to bodies before."

"I just don't feel up to it today."

"Hmmm." He stands, crossing to loom over me, eyes narrowed. "You're nervous. Going to St. Bartholomew's scares you. Why…." His eyes alight.

I shake my head before he can go on. "Whatever you're going to say, we both know you're right. I just don't feel ready yet, okay?"

"All the more reason to join me."

"I don't think it will help."

"But it will help you _overcome._" He tilts his head, leaning in. "Come. I could use someone, anyways."

Skeptical, I raise a brow. "Surely John could be your sounding board for this?"

"At work," Sherlock replies shortly, sweeping past me to grab a pair of trousers from the closet. He selects a white shirt from the chest between the windows. Disappearing into the bathroom briefly, the detective emerges dressed. I have his shoes, socks, and jacket laid out on the bed. He smirks slightly, then proceeds to put them on – taking his sweet time about it.

We leave 221B, hailing a cab to take us St. Bart's. I stare out the window, watching the city pass. We sit at opposite sides of the vehicle, as always, not touching or even looking at one another. It's never particularly bothered me, but today I especially feel the distance. Just like I'd felt it back in the tunnels, watching his back retreating into the darkness.

I close my eyes. _"Don't think on it."_

One day, back when I'd first moved to the city, before Sherlock and I reconciled, John had taken me out to tea. We'd been taking about him – _"Surprise, surprise." _– and John had said something about always being a few steps behind his friend.

"That's the thing about Sherlock," he'd said, half-smiling. "You're going to be watching him waltz ahead of you more often than not. You've got to learn not to take it personally. It's either keep up or stay a few paces behind – either way, I'm not sure if he'll notice."

They were not heartening words.

For once, I wish he'd reach out. No, I wish he'd held back, waited for me. That would've been better yet. But he didn't – and I need to move on.

We reach the hospital and descent to the basement morgue. Molly is waiting for us. I haven't seen her since the wedding. In the stark lighting of the labs, she looks a little washed out, skin pale and lips thin. She blinks at me, seemingly surprised to see me here. I smile brightly, though nausea rises within my stomach. The mortician smiles back uncertainly.

She leads us to the drawers without much small talk. With no preamble, she opened the door and slid the body out.

"Mr. Mooresly. Forty-eight, diabetic. Found in his garage last night. There were some weird lacerations," she begins briskly. "Here, on the abdomen –"

I peer at the body, then look away. Mr. Mooresly's face has been beaten in brutally. He is fine, otherwise, like any other body – pale, stiff, carefully arranged. The bile curls unpleasantly in my gut. Sherlook looks down, gaze flickering over the ruined flesh. He frowns, concentrating. I can see a thousand options – tools, methods, markings – all going through his head until something clicks. Like a key in a lock.

"Do you need a moment?" Molly asks.

He hesitates. "Yes. I think so. Molly, would you show Viola where the tea is? She's been feeling a little peakish, I'm sure she could use the pick-me-up."

I open my mouth, intending to protest. But we share a glance – Sherlock's brows raised – and I let my mouth snap shut. _"You know you want to leave," _his upturned lips say. _"Go on, then."_

"Yes," I agree abruptly after an awkward beat of silence. "He's right. I'd love some tea, if it's not too much trouble."

"Right this way."

We leave Sherlock with Mr. Moorsely to walk down a long white hallway. Molly is silent until we reach the kitchenette. It's a sparse, clean space. Molly fetches a mug – yellow, with pink roses painted on it – and starts the electric kettle. I awkwardly stand for a few minutes before she invites me to sit at the small table in the corner.

I sip the Earl Grey Slowly. I can feel her watching me. Looking up from the rim of the mug, I attempt another smile.

"What's it like?" she asks suddenly. "Dating Sherlock Holmes?" As soon as the words are out, she colors.

Surprised, I sit back. "Oh. Well. It's…." I search for the words. "It's pretty difficult sometimes, actually. Well. Most of the time. He's a right pig-headed git, you know, and mostly oblivious. I mean, really oblivious – never mind people getting snatched right out from under his nose, it's more like friends being angry with him. He's utterly childish. Bossy and imposing and pretty damn rude to everyone he's ever met. So forget going out for drinks with friends. Or, really going out at all, unless that 'date' is going to chase criminals or look at dead bodies."

Moll blinks, a little breathless. I smile.

"Sorry," I say shyly. "It's just…he can be a bit of a pain. But a pain that I'm getting used to. He's a good man."

"I know," she says. "He certainly is. But I can imagine he's probably a less-than-easy to handle sometimes. And he does need 'handling,' I imagine."

I grin. "You're definitely right there. Between reminding him to eat and dress, sometime I wonder how, exactly, he's navigated so successfully into adulthood. I mean, I'm just twenty-one and I'm far more responsible." I begin to relax. I like Molly, I think.

"Sorry to be so nosey," Molly says, picking up her own coffee cup. "But I was just curious what kind of person he would let in his life. I know Sherlock Holmes. He wouldn't let just anyone live with him."

"We're not living together," I say quickly.

"Sorry," she repeats. Embarrassed, she sets down her mug.

"We're just not…there yet. I don't know if we'll ever be, you know. We're people who need space, you know?"

She nods. "I completely understand." She sips. After a pause, the mortician asks slowly, "If you don't mind, I was wondering, why…why do you stay? I mean, we're just friends, but I know that even I have the urge to slap him, sometimes. And…John's told me about what happened between you too. How you didn't even know his real name or anything. Then, earlier in the month." She blushes. "I saw you here, upstairs. You don't seem like the kind of person to keep going back. "

Her question takes me aback a bit. I take a moment before answering.

"I don't know," I admit finally. "You know, I don't think anyone could. I doubt even John could tell you why he hangs around – simply that they're friends. It's not so different with us." I pause. "You've ever had something you're addicted to? Something that kind of tears you apart inside, but you still kept going back? Smoking, tanning, eating too much chocolate, shite 1990s sitcoms? I suppose that's how it is. I know it frustrates me sometimes, but Sherlock isn't something I can give up on so easily. That pain-in-the-arse is worth it. Most of the time."

"But only most of the time," Sherlock drawls from the doorway. I start, not realizing that he was there. He smirks, slipping inside the tiny kitchen, opening the cabinet to pull out a mug. He pours himself a cup of coffee, leaning against the counter to peer at us, lips still twisted in a slight smile. "There's still a certain percentage of the time where I'm not?"

"What did you find?" Molly asks before I can retort.

"He was whipped," Sherlock says. "By someone who doesn't like snakes. Patterns were consistent with the scales of a Balinese Python."

Molly frowns. "He had a pet snake. A python. It was missing –"

"You'll need to charge them with animal abuse," he adds. "You'll probably find they live in the neighborhood."

"How can you tell?"

"The files said the garage was locked – always locked. I'm willing to bet Mr. Moorsely gave a neighbor a spare key. The snake was removed from the enclosure without the lock being broken, either, which means it was someone who knew where he kept the keys."

A few more questions, and Molly is satisfied. I thank her for the tea, then we leave, back to the world of living. Waiting on the curb for a cab – Sherlock has never been one for the underground, and since last autumn I've been uncomfortable around the subways – we're quiet. He's looking out at the street, eyes narrowed as cars whiz pass. My back is to the traffic. I'm examining St. Bart's architecture a little mindlessly. Sherlock doesn't look at me when he speaks.

"I heard most of what was said between you and Molly."

I freeze.

"Gave me some new insight." He tilts his head.

"Really?" I ask dryly. "I'd think you'd already have known everything I said."

"Not that I was your fix." Turning to peer at me, the consulting detective half-smiles. "And I didn't realize that you never thought we'd live together."

I blink. "Uh. Well, I don't know. Did you think we might?"

He shrugs. "I had not thought so far in advance."

"I wouldn't have thought you would, either."

"You wouldn't move in with me?"

Pursing my lips, I consider. "Not for a long, long time. Show me you can function like an adult, and I'll think about it. Though I highly doubt you'll be looking to that anytime soon."

The detective snorts. "And you say you're not deductive."

**-XXX-**

**I've not had much of a response, but I'm going to keep on keeping!  
Questions, comments, concerns, I take 'em all. **


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

**I finished planning up to the series finale yesterday and I am quite pleased with the plot. 4 more chapters! **

**-XXX-**

For the second time since we've been together, Sherlock has offered to take me out. To dinner. I have to ask him twice, just to clarify.

"Yes, Viola," he replies after my third inquiry, exasperated. He s attempting to dissect some kind of kidney at the kitchen table. I pointedly avoid looking at that part of the table. "Dinner. Next Thursday. Do wear sometime…appropriate."

I blink. "What do you mean? I'm always dressed 'appropriately.' It's yourself I'd be concerned about. You virtually wear the same thing every day."

"That's because it looks good on me."

Unfortunately, I cannot deny this. He does look good in his usual outfit. With a sigh, I rise. It is now autumn, and I have classes to attend. One more sip of tea, then I set the cup in the sink, passing Sherlock, backtracking and pausing to give him a breezy kiss upon his crown. In response, he grunts affectionately, catching my wrist before I move away. He pulls me down for a brief kiss. I cup his cheek, smiling.

"I've got to go," I say softly.

"I'll see you tonight."

Surprised, I pause in swinging on my backpack. "Um, I can't. I have a meeting with a few people from school. I've got a recital at the end of the semester I'm prepping for, remember? The big German-y one?"

For a beat, Sherlock peers at me, eyes narrowed. "No," he says slowly.

I roll my eyes. "I find myself unsurprised that you would deem that unimportant. It's Wanger, which I'm sure you would like, which is good because you've invited. December 20th."

He does not protest. I leave the flat, intent on catching the nearest tube to take me to the university. Before I set off down the sidewalk, I turn back to look at the windows of 221B, as I have over a hundred times before, just as I do every time I leave my boyfriend's flat. I do not see Sherlock. But that is hardly unusual.

**-XXX-**

Of course, it's not quite your standard date – not that I have much experience with those. Instead of picking me up, I meet Sherlock at 221B, feeling a little out of place in my silky grey cowl-neck dress and black gladiator-style heels. Sherlock is wearing a sheet when I enter, propped up before his laptop. I resist the urge to hit him.

"I thought you said 6:30?" I ask through gritted teeth.

"Did I?" He frowns briefly, then nods. "Yes. I did."

"Where are your clothes?"

"My closet, Viola," he replies as though it was the stupidest question in the world.

"Why are they not on your person?"

He sighs. "I got distracted."

It takes another twenty minutes for him to get properly dressed for public viewing. When we finally leave the apartment, he refuses to tell me where we're going. We seem to be wandering. It's cold out, with the autumn leaves whipping past us in an unkind wind. Just as we've made our second u-turn, right when I open my mouth to call him out, Sherlock smoothly directs us to a tiny Italian place, giving the hostess his name. He'd actually made a real reservation.

We are led to a table beside the window, overlooking the neat little street outside. While browsing the menu, I sneak peeks at Sherlock. He's oddly at-ease. It's enough to make me wary. Well, that, and the date-thing. It's just very un-Sherlock. But, as the evening wears on and we eat our meal, nothing particularly unusual occurs. He tells funny stories, and even pretends to listen to me talk a bit about school.

"I might be able to graduate by next year," I tell him. "A year earlier that I'd thought. I don't know what I'll do, though." I sigh. "If I cannot come up with something soon, Dad will probably find some way into guilting me into returning to Sussex to help him with the rentals."

"If he's still talking to you," Sherlock reminds me.

The silence between myself and my father broke only two days after I returned to London, though communications have been brief, tense, and generally stayed away from topics such as Sherlock, my mother, school, and London. That took a lot off the table, leaving us with not a whole lot to discuss.

"We'll see. It's over a year away." Wishing to change the subject, I ask, "What are you up to at the moment? An exciting case? I feel like I've hardly seen you."

"Yes," he answers shortly.

Tilting my head, I take a bite of ravioli, frowning. He's normally more forth-coming when it comes to details of cases. "A big one?"

The consulting detective half-shrugs. "A long one. It shall span several months, I believe."

"Wow." I've never known one of his cases to last so long. They tend to be more cut-and-dry. He doesn't like to let them linger if he can help it. He must not be able to help it this time, though. "Is it giving you trouble?" I ask delicately.

He shakes his head slowly. "Not really. Just very…time consuming."

He has seemed a touch busier over the last few days. Focused on something. Yet, he's eaten regularly, and he asked me out tonight. Definitely not something he'd do on a normal case.

"Viola," he says abruptly. "How long have we been…" Sherlock seems to struggle to find the word. "Dating?"

"Um. I don't know. Not counting whatever it we had last summer? About eight months."

He nods. "Longer than I'd expected," he murmurs under his breath.

I lean forward. "Why?"

Sherlock sits back, reacting slowly to my motion. "It's felt faster. I need to ask you something, Viola," he says quietly. "And I do not want you to mistake me."

Something swells in the pit of my stomach. _"Surely he is not asking –" _He wouldn't. Hell, he _couldn't _possibly be asking me _that. _

"I need you to do something for me."

"What?" I've set down my fork, feeling that the gravity of the moment would be broken by the sound of metal scraping against porcelain.

"I need you to stop seeing me."

Reeling, I recoil. "What do you mean? Stop – dating?"

"Yes." He steeples his fingers. "For a few months, yes."

"You mean…take a break?"

'In a manner of speaking, yes."

I am utterly floored. For a moment, I am silent, eyes unable to tear away for his. Finally, I look down at my food, asking my pasta, "Why?"

When I glance up, I can see that he is very uncomfortable. _"He doesn't want to explain." _ But I sit him out, waiting expectantly.

"I don't feel like we're in a good place."

I shake my head. "You took that from a book or movie, didn't you? What's the real reason, Sherlock?"

He's stoic. "I simply believe we would benefit from this."

Infuriated, I say harshly, "Then why not simply break up with me? There's clearly no point in us hanging on, eh? 'Taking a break' isn't something that works. Did your research teach you that, Sherlock? So, why don't we just call this what it is?"

"Because that's not what I want." The consulting detective is frowning.

"But that isn't how these things work. You cannot 'turn this off' for a few months then pick it back up whenever you want. I won't idly sit by waiting for you. I won't."

Stubbornly, he leans forward. "I don't wish to lose you."

The honesty would be warming under different circumstances, but today it's merely another infuriating admittance. "Then why are you doing this? Explain to me why, Sherlock, and maybe I can understand."

But he's silent. He cannot or will not say. Eyes locked onto mine, Sherlock sits back, hands folding on the table. We stare at one another for what feels like an age. I'm not quite sure what we're doing. Simply looking, I guess. Sizing each other up. Waiting.

After a while, Sherlock says, "Very well. Then, I suppose…this is goodbye."

I laugh; I can't help myself. "No 'we'll always be friends?'"

"Your past behavior has shown me you will leave no room for that," he replies smoothly. "Though, I have no doubt you will continue your associating with the Dr. and Mrs. Watson. You have a certain level of understanding with John and a sympathy for Mary, likely because you sense, as I do, that she has no one in this world outside of her husband. It would be an advantageous connection for you, anyways. Between John's occupation, the fact that you have few other friends within the city, and an ability to then keep something of a tabs on me, you will have good reason to continue the relationship. "

"Good deduction," I say, starting to rise. "You're right. Of course."

"I'm always right."

"Nearly," I agree, putting on my jacket. I push in the chair, leaning against it briefly. "I suppose you'll take care of the bill."

"Yes."

I nod. "Thank you."

With that, I step back, straightening the cuffs of my jacket. "Have a good one, Sherlock."

I treat myself to a cab tonight, wanting to get home as soon as possible. I blankly walk up to the stoop, pressing keys into the door, stumbling thoughtlessly up the stairs. As soon as I'm in I fall upon my couch, partaking of the tradition of crying my eyes out. After a bit I go to the fridge for ice cream, parking myself before the TV. I wake the next morning with a sore neck from sleeping on the couch, a pitifully empty chocolate chip ice cream carton, and tired eyes.

**-XXX-**

The next day I call my father. I don't tell him what's happened, merely talk. It's a strange combination of comforting and irritating to listen to him talk about the business, the goings-on of the village, Hugo, and tofuss over me. I let him talk for an age, half-listening as I file my nails, the TV muted in the background.

"Are you alright, Vi?" he asks, concerned. "You're being very quiet, love."

"Oh," I start. "I'm just a little tired. But I'm listening."

"I was just thinking, I may come up in late winter, Vi. Before the busy season, let you show me around town."

This is the first time my father has even mentioned visiting London. A little stunned, I pause before saying, "Yes, yes, of course! I'll still be in classes….maybe you could come up around Easter break?"

We agree to start thinking about dates. I can tell that he's still a little concerned, so I try to sound as airy as possible throughout the rest of the call. There's no need to worry him. Besides, it would just be something else to for him to argue with me about. We're just now getting back on a even keel with one another. Maybe in a few week I'll let him know.

"I love you, Dad," I say before we disconnect. "Loads, you know."

"Wait, Vi. Will you be home for Christmas?"

I freeze. It's almost five months away. "Oh, it's early, Dad. I don't know. Probably."

"Good, good. Well. Keep up with your studies. I love you."

"You too."

There is a pause, then the line goes dead.

**-XXX-**

It's a whole three weeks later before the news breaks around Pinstripes. I happen to mention it casually over a glass of scotch before our set. The rest of the band stares at me, jaw slightly agape.

"When were you going to tell us?!" exclaims Tiana.

"Three weeks?" Loren asks. "Almost a month, and you didn't think to tell us."

I sip my scotch, shrugging. "It never really came up."

Harry throws an arm over my shoulder. He's partaking of his usual tradition of having a drink with us before the first set. He kisses my forehead. "You okay, love?"

"Yeah, yeah," I say with a wave of the hand. "I mean, it's been nearly a month, like Loren said. Took a bit of working out, you know, but it's fine now."

"Did he say why?" Harry picks up my glass, setting it along side the others on the tray near the stage door.

"Bullshit."

"Typical," Harry snorts.

Chaz, who has been fiddling with his bass, shakes his head. "He probably had some real reason, just didn't want to offend you."

Thinking of Sherlock, I shake my head. "I don't know," I sigh. "I don't really care at this point."

Tiana pats my hand. "Don't let that asshole get you down. Hey, we could set you up, if you like. Get you back in the game. You know what they say, when you fall –"

I don't like the idea of dating being referred to as a "game" but I choose to hold my remark, instead smiling at Tiana and thanking her for her thoughtfulness. "I don't know if I'm quite there yet, you know? Still getting used to being alone, and all."

Which is a bit of a lie. One of the benefits of dating Sherlock qas that I'd gotten an abundant amount of alone time – less privacy, but plenty of space, really. Some might find it irritating, but seeing as I spent a great deal of my childhood alone, and grew up enjoying silence and solitude. The space we gave one another was appropriate. It fit us well.

Another round of hugs, then we need to start warming up. Harry reminds us, with a wince, that it's couple nights.

"Probably a lot of love song requests. Sorry, Viola."

"I'm fine," I remind him. "Completely fine."

He squeezes my shoulder. "Of course," he says soothingly. "Let us know if you need anything, eh?"

After a very long night of playing, I receive even more hugs, this time from the hostess, Marion, and members of the waitstaff,,and leave feeling very warm. My Pinstripes family is lovely and wonderful and not at all what I'd expected when I'd joined, but what I needed, I think. I wouldn't trade them from the world.

**-XXX-**

** MWHAHAHA, not the direction you thought this was going to take, eh? Remember, this follows series 3. I can't very well have Sherlock dating Janine and Viola.**

**Sherlock is known for liking Wanger, just thought I'd slip that in there.**

**Thoughts? Questions, comments, concerns, critiques, I answer 'em all. Eventually. Reviews would be wonderful!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Quite a shock, I know, but it's quite necessary. We've got three chapters left! I promise, things shall make sense! **

**Thanks for all of the lovely feedback!**

**-XXX-**

Mary is late, which is very un-Mary-like. I sit at one of the two armchairs in front of the shop window, keeping a hawk-like eye out on the passersby, hoping that I'll spot her soon. Last week we made plans for drinks at a coffee-smoothie shop near her neighborhood around 10. It's 10:20, and I'm starting to get a little worried, fingering my cellphone, wondering if I should call. She is, after all, with child.

Finally, I spot a harried Mary moving anxiously through the crowd. She enters, apologizing profusely.

"I'm so sorry! We had a bit of a crisis this morning." She sits down, straightening her blouse.

"Oh? Everything alright?"

"Yeah," she assures me. Then she bites her lip.

Curious, I shift in my seat. "Mary, what happened?"

"I'll tell you after I order…."

When she returns, it's with a nervous expression. I sip my smoothie, waiting for her to speak.

"This morning, our neighbor came by – her son was missing, holed up at a drug den for a few days. Me and John went to get him out and….we found him. And Sherlock."

I blink. "Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes? At a drug den?"

She nods. "He claimed to be undercover. On a case."

I think back to the last time I saw him, when he mentioned the long case he was currently working on. I wonder if it's related.

For the last two months, I've worked hard to cast all thoughts of Sherlock from my life. I'm not angry, exactly. I just need some space, time to readjust. To my surprise, I'm plenty busy without the consulting detectives odd-hours' demands. And, while I have missed him, I'm finding that holding only accountability to myself is new. Nice.

"But he's not…he's not been on the stuff for ages. He's barely even smoked over the last year. Surely there has to be a mistake. Sherlock wouldn't…" I drift off, seeing Mary shake her head.

"Molly did the test."

"Is he okay? Is he getting help?"

"John took him home." Mary again bites her lip. She's holding something back. Something that's nearly worst. "And he found Janine there."

I frown. "Your bride's maid? The personal assistant? Why was she –"

I freeze, comprehending. "He's back on drugs and now he's _dating?" _

"He dated you, didn't here? Is it so inconceivable?" Mary puts a hand on mine. "John didn't want me to tell you, but you need to know."

"The drugs….Janine isn't why he's….?"

"No, no!" she assures me. "He claims it's for this case, with Charles Magnussen."

The name rings a bell. "The newspaper guy?"

"Yeah. It's not her, I think. It's this case. A big one, John says."

I don't know which bothers me more – the drugs or the new girlfriend. I turn back to my smoothie, looking out the windows. This is the problem with having mutual friends. I'm not sure if I wanted to know about Sherlock's strange decline. Though, I suppose it's good to know. I thank Mary, then go to change the subject.

My friend is very distracted, however. The blonde holds eye contact throughout, though it's a very blank, glazed sort. She's got other things on her mind at the moment. I let it lie, knowing that if she wished to share it with me, she would. Mary's life must surely be overwhelming at the moment, with a baby on the way, a new marriage, and her husband's dearest friend going off the deep end.

We move on to lighter subjects – the baby, work, school, and so on. The new Watson is due in mid-winter, and according to Mary's doctor, has all ten fingers and toes.

"We didn't get the gender. We're both wanting a surprise. So, the nursery is going to be yellow. We're painting next week. You should stop by to see it. It's going to have a lovely sort of green ivy pattern along the ceiling, and we've already started building the crib." She beams. "I still can't believe it."

"That sounds lovely, Mary. Have you started thinking up names?"

She lists a few, very traditional sort of names, then waves a hand. "We've got a while. Besides, we're really looking for something that fits. When we see them, we'll know."

The notion sounds nice to me. I think they'll both be great parents.

We part after another hour. I hug Mary, thanking her for meeting me. She squeezes me extra hard, whispering, "You're okay."

"I know." I pull back with a smile. "I'll see you again soon, eh? Tell John I said hello."

"I will."

I leave her, not knowing that we wouldn't be seeing one another for quite some time, and when we do, it will be under some very serious circumstances.

**-XXX-**

After my less-than-brilliant brunch with Mary, I head to the nearest park, hoping that some cool autumn air might clear both my head and lungs. Unfortunately, I find myself interrupted on my way there by a mysterious black car, which is following me quite closely. I may not be Sherlock Holmes, but even I can deduct who it is following me.

I stop near a bench, sitting until the car is level with me. The black town car is sleek, with windows that are tinted far above code. It's impossible to discern who sits inside. But it's all too easy to guess. Then the window rolls down, eliminating all doubt – of which there was little.

"Hello, Mycroft."

By the curl of his lower lip, I can tell he is disgruntled that I have stolen his opportunity to have the first word.

"Miss Carters." He inclines his head. "If you would be so kind…."

With a sigh, I open the door and slide inside. Mycroft grants me a brief and insincere smile. He's as bad as Sherlock in his mimicry – simply a little better at being socially acceptable about it. I do not return it, simply nod before looking out the window. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mycroft wave to the drive, who pulls away from the curb.

"I do hope your midterm examinations are coming along. You undoubtedly will do well – though, I would study well for your theory exam. If you are not cautious," Mycroft drawls, peering out of his window.

"Thank you. I shall keep that in mind." I do not bother wondering how he's aware of my progress or grades. "You look well, Mr. Holmes."

He half-smiles. "I've given up smoking. And small talk, though I suppose I could indulge you. You may have the time for such dull courtesies, but I am rather busy, so let us cut to the chase, shall we?"

"And yet you came all the way out here just to talk to me. I'm flattered." Outside, a bike messenger is level with us. Despite their sunglasses, I can tell by the tilt of their head that the rider is attempting to look in. I stare back openly. "I'm sure you are aware that I am no longer dating your brother."

"I do know you abruptly stopped your association. Your 'relationship,' if you will." Mycroft sighs. "He was quite cross for several weeks. Wouldn't leave the apartments for days. You did quite a number."

He has stopped me short. Frowning, I look at him. "Forgive me, but I think you are mistaken. Your scolding is misdirected. Sherlock broke up with me. Not the other way around."

Brows rising, Mycroft frowns back at me. "Surely not."

"Then there has been a terrible mistake and I misunderstood his 'it'd-be-best-if-we-didn't-see-each-other' speech," I reply wryly.

"He is very fond of you."

"Apparently not anymore."

He shakes his head. "No, anytime you are mentioned, he reacts almost violently. Wide pupils, increased heart rate, and so on." Mycroft almost seems to often. "Even so. This is perhaps good for you. Your safety shall not be so disregarded. You can now focus on your studies, building connections in London, making friends closer to your own age."

I feel like a child, being lectured to by a condescending adult. _"See here, we did tell you things wouldn't work out, didn't we? And now you've gone and gotten your heart broken. Well, it is what you get for meddling with grown-up things." _The pretention grates upon my nerves.

"This isn't why you sought me out – you're not the type to grab a person from the curb just to 'catch up,' Mycroft. What do you want?" I don't even make a show of being polite. "Why did you come here?"

His lips curl. "You're right. I had a higher cause."

The car is in a busy intersection now. Looking at the street sign, I can see that we're miles from where I'd had brunch with Mary. I notice that the doors are locked. I try to ignore this feeling of cold that has gathered in the pit of my stomach. Instead, I look at the faces of the people on the street. Mothers guiding toddling children or babies in carriages. Street vendors. The haggard face of bankers and homeless alike. Teenagers, holding hands, sharing all-too-private kisses on all-too-public benches. The pulse of the streets is all around, in the halt-and-go motion of the cars, the people pushing careless past one another, the gleam of raindrops on the windows of shop fronts. It's just another day.

It has always interested me that on the sidewalks and streets of this city – and really, any city – a thousand lives can pass you by. So many stories, experiences, so much knowledge. And we sort of go about every day ignoring one another. Seeing, but not.

Maybe it's easier to let your gaze slide past than it is to care. Sherlock didn't though – he saw everything. Heard everything. And he may not have deemed it all important, and shoved aside what was merely fluff. But what was useful, what mattered, he heard. He saw.

"Have you ever heard of Charles Magnussen?"

I start, turning back to Mycroft, who is watching me with cold chips of sapphires for eyes. The name turns in my head, whispering of familiarity. "No," I admit. "I mean, it sounds somewhat familiar, but I cannot attach a face or any information to it."

Something like relief passes over Mycroft's face. But it is gone in a flash. "Good." A pause. Then. "Don't go…looking for him. Do not put his name into any search engine, do not seek him out, ask no one of him. If you see his name, I want you to forget it. Do you understand me?"

I stare blankly, utterly floored. I don't know who this Magnussen person is, but if I had to guess, I'd say he is a very dangerous man. A dangerous man that _Mycroft Holmes _is trying to protect me from. Which would in turn imply that Sherlock's brother cares for my well-being. For a minute all I can do is gape until Mycroft's brows rise, and I remember myself.

"Who is he?" I whisper. I don't know why I am whispering. It is not as thought anyone can hear us.

"Do you think I'd tell you now that I've forbade you from looking him up?" he asks wryly. "Just know that he is not someone you wish to be familiar with, Viola. Let us leave it at that."

"Can you at least tell me why, then?"

He looks uncomfortable. "Your safety. Though, the less you know, the safer you'll be. Trust me, Viola."

It should be hard to do. But, despite everything that Sherlock and John have implied, Mycroft has never, in anyway, done anything to harm me. If anything, he has worked extensively to keep us secure, occasionally going against his brother's judgment and irrational actions to aid us. So can't hesitate in trusting him. But that doesn't stop me from wondering – who is this Magnussen? And why shouldn't I seek him out?

"Do you understand me, Viola?" he repeats.

I nod slowly.

Mycroft goes on. "The circumstances that are creating this risk have come at an ideal time, however. Your association with Sherlock would not help you in this instance."

My eyes tighten. "Breaking up with him seems to have helped me a lot. Or, at least, that's what everyone is saying."

He has no pity for me. Mycroft didn't want us together in the first place – it was no objection to me, I think, but rather the impression that Sherlock would irrevocably damage anyone he touched. Or perhaps it was the other way around; he feared that Sherlock might come out being the one damaged by the experience.

"They're right. It may not seem as though you will come back from this a whole person now, but in time you will see it was for the better," Mycroft says, almost gently. "It is one of the more generous, insightful decisions my brother has ever made. Even if it was a difficult one for him."

"It wasn't," I reply.

The elder Holmes brother's lips purse. "I do not believe we share the same perspectives on the matter."

I say nothing. We are, I notice, just a block from Pinstripes. Looking at my watch, I see that I'm only an hour from my shift. Turning to Mycroft, mouth open, I stop to see him looking out of the window. He appears…saddened.

"I won't go looking for him…this Magnussen," I assure Mycroft. "You have my word. And…I'll stay away from Sherlock. I mean, I've done pretty well so far."

"See that you continue to do so. He may try to seek you out." He sounds mostly like himself again. "Surely he would not be so foolish with the risk of Magnussen. Turn him away, never the less."

"I will."

The car stops a few doors down from Pinstripe. I unbuckle, placing a hand tentatively on the handle.

"You'll find a bag of clothes appropriate for the evening inside – I wasn't sure if lunch and dinner require different apparel. We'll be in touch."

"And watching, no doubt," I murmur. "Thank you for the ride and the warning and the clothes."

He inclines his head. "Have a good afternoon, Viola."

With that, I remove myself from the car. I stand on the curb, watching as they pull away, delving into the onslaught of vehicles. Once the black car is out of sight, I walk into Pinstripes. Being a early, everyone is surprised. But the bartender, Karl, pours me a glass of rosè, easing my nerves and giving me a chance to relax before the lunch rush, mulling over the encounter I'd had with Mycroft Holmes.

**-XXX-**

** Aw, quality time with Mycroft. What more could anyone need?**

**Reviews would be grand, as always! **


	7. Chapter 7

**Apologies for the delay, I've been on vacation and working at a summer camp…hopefully this has been worth the wait!**

**-XXX-**

A day later, somewhere around six in the morning, I receive a call. I blindly fish an arm out from beneath my duvet to reach for my cell, which is currently buzzing quite loudly on the nightstand. Grunting, I sit up, turning on the lamp as I answer groggily.

"Viola!" Mary Watson breathes. "Oh, thank God. It's Sherlock –"

"What?" Still not fully awake, I lean against the headboard.

"Sherlock's in the hospital. He's been shot."

Now I'm awake. For a minute, everything freezes. When I've finally processed her words with my sleep-addled brain, I speak slowly.

"What happened?"

"He and John," she says. "Being stupid. They were breaking into someone's office, and there was someone with a gun…oh, it's all very vague and messy."

"John," I say suddenly. "Is John alright?"

"He's fine," Mary reassures me, something in her voice breaking. "He wasn't in the room when they came across Sherlock, thank goodness. He's fine, just shaken."

Rising from the bed, I start towards the dresser, pulling out a pair of jeans and underwear. "H-how bad is it?" Now at the closet, I stare blankly at the blouses, sweaters, dresses and shoes. "Is he – Mary, will he be okay?"

She hesitates. "He's critical. He was dead for several minutes."

I gasp before she quickly cuts over me.

"But he's stable now. It was straight in the chest, Viola. He got help just in time, it could've been a lot worse. Listen, we're in the hospital now. You really should come down here. He'll be awake in a few hours and I think it would do him good to see you."

While I want to see Sherlock more than anything right now, there is something that stops me short. A barrier, of sorts, that I dare not approach.

"But Janine," I say. "They'll probably want time together, I don't want to intrude on that."

A certain tone enters Mary's voice. "Janine won't be a problem. I'm more than certain that they won't be seeing one another after this."

I've no clue what she means, but the force in her tone allows me to believe her without a doubt. Pulling on my jeans with one hand, listen as she instructs me as to where to meet her and John.

"I'll be there within an hour," I say, rushing to the kitchen to start some toast. "Please text me if anything changes."

"He won't wake up for at least another three hours," she says. "I'd bring some reading."

**-XXX-**

Thirty minutes later I'm ready – dressed, fed, and carrying a bag filled with reading materials . I'd had to force the toast down. It felt like sawdust, but I knew I would need the energy. My to-go mug of Earl Grey tastes little better. Still, I swallow it down like wine from the Holy Grail.

In the glass of the train window, I realize how very pathetic I look, with a baggy sweater, trainers, and red-rimmed eyes. Not the "so-hot-you-regret-breaking-up-with-me" look every ex strives for when meeting with their former significant other for the first time. But this isn't a party or dinner. Circumstances are very different. I doubt Sherlock will care what I'm wearing – though I have no doubt he'll analyze it.

At my stop I stumble onto the street, blinking back daylight. The hospital is still five blocks away. I need to get a little calmer before seeing John and Mary who are undoubtedly more shaken than me.

Once inside, it takes me sometime to find the waiting area where the Watsons have set up camp. I walk uneasily past nurses, peering into every room I pass with great trepidation. Finally I see them, arms cast around one another, sitting on uncomfortable waiting room chairs. Upon seeing me, both rise, Mary going in to hug me first. John is next. He appears very haggard.

"It's okay," he murmurs, squeezing me. "It's fine, he's fine."

I don't realize until Mary hands me a tissue from her bag that my face is wet with tears.

"I'm sorry, it just hit me now…oh, thank God you're alright, John!"

Mary leans up to press a kiss into her husband's cheek. "So am I."

"He's not awake yet, is he?" I wipe my eyes, sinking into one of the chairs across from theirs.

"Not yet. They'll tell us when."

In a few hours I have class. Mary and John convince me to go when Sherlock doesn't wake, telling me that they will text when he's able to receive visitors. I nervously part, knowing that the likelihood of me visiting will decrease greatly. He'll be fine, now. No need to see me.

**-XXX-**

"Oh, I'm sorry. I was told you were alone –"

The pretty woman with long chestnut hair – Janine – turns back to look at me. She blinks, confused. I back myself out to the hallway, making to close the door, cursing the nurse who gave me the okay to come on in. Sherlock's weary eyes lock onto mine before I can close the door.

"Viola. Stay," he commands.

"I was just leaving," Janine assures me, standing from the bed to offer the chair. "Please, come in. He could use your company."

I recognize her face. Not just from the wedding, but from the tabloid covers I saw in the gift shop only an hour or two ago. Recently her narrow features has been all over, bold letters ahead reading "_Office Assistant Duped by Consulting Detective" _or _"He Was a Sleezebag: Janine Miller Speaks Out." _I've recently seen promos on TV, too, promising exclusive interviews.

"Oh, no, I don't wish to interrupt." It had already taken a good deal of self-convincing to bring me down here – not to mention a number of pleading texts and phone calls from John after class. Seeing her is more than enough to show me that this was a terrible idea.

"No," she insists. "I was just saying goodbye, really. Come in."

Sherlock doesn't speak again as I move inside, but his eyes never flicker off of mine. Janine says a few soft words, hikes her purse onto her shoulder, and moves lightly past me, smiling. When she's gone, I stand with my back against the door, staring. In silence, we do little more than gaze at one another.

"Come here," he says softly.

I shake my head. "Fine here, thanks."

A sigh. "Viola."

"Funny that she's still coming to visit you after smearing your name across the media."

He looks away. "We had a few things to work out. There are no hard feelings."

"That's good." I do not mean to sound bitter.

Another sigh. "I did not expect you to come."

Behind my back, my hands curl to fists. "You were shot. Of course I came."

"How many times did John call you?" His brows rise.

"Four. But I still would've. I was here earlier, anyways. Mary called me this morning, right after you were brought in. I rushed down." Pushing myself off of the door, I move close to the bed, lowering myself onto the chair. "Despite your pig-headedness." I soften. "Sherlock. You almost died, you idiot."

He smiles mildly, looking back at me. "I knew it'd have to be quite the gesture to get you to come see me."

If he wasn't injured, I would have hit him. "Right," I say dryly. "Because it's not as though you proposed to Janine five minutes before you were shot. Just the romantic gesture every girl is looking for – expect, I'm not Janine, _Sherl._"

The detective visibly winces. "I can see you've spoken to John on matters besides my injury."

"Yes, and the poor bloke is out of his mind with worry. Drugs, Sherlock?" I shake my head. "I know you've probably been feeling a little neglected between your best mate's wedding and the baby, but if you need help – if you needed someone to talk to… I wouldn't have turned you away. Despite how angry I was."

"Was?"

"Am," I amend. "Because I am still very, very angry. Getting shot only tops it off, you know. What were you thinking? Was this about drugs?"

"No," he scoffs. "It was a case. It's all been around a case. Janine, the drugs, taking a break with you…."

"What case, Sherlock?"

He holds my gaze for a moment, calculating something. "Newspaper man. War of information….it's messy."

"I can tell," I say dryly, nodding to his chest, where his bandage is visible. "Are you going to be alright?""

"I will be." He says this as he's wincing, reaching for the morphine remote. "In time." There is a pause as he clicks the dial a few times. With a sigh, he sinks back onto the pillow. "Viola."

That's it. Simply my name. I stare at him, waiting, as he stares back openly. Impassive as ever. I have neither the energy nor the patience to attempt to decode what he might possibly be thinking. After several painfully awkward moments, I speak.

"I'm glad you're alright," I say quietly.

"As am I."

"Don't be a prick for a minute!" I glare. "For God's sake, Sherlock Holmes, you nearly died."

"But I didn't." He opens a hand. "I am glad to see you."

I accept the open palm, intertwining my fingers with his spidery digits. "And I you. Prick."

Sherlock grins sleepily. The morphine is kicking in. He turns his head to the window. "I didn't want to break up with you," he assures me, sounding far away. "But I needed to get Janine's trust, and I knew you wouldn't understand."

"You broke up with me to date her?"

He nods. "I needed her."

I frown, pressing his hand to my cheek. He normally doesn't allow for the level of contact. "If you'd explained, I would have understood," I tell him quietly.

"I couldn't count on that," he breathes. "Love makes people all kinds of ridiculous. And it was safer for you, anyways, if we were less associated."

"Safer how? From who?"

"Mmmm, Magnussen."

I touch his face, turning his head so that I might see his eyes. They're just slightly unfocused. Stroking his cheek, I lean down to kiss him lightly. "Who is Magnussen, Sherlock?"

He blinks. "We're not broken anymore?" he whispers. "Viola?"

I want to hesitate, but I don't give myself a chance. I can have second doubts and be angry with him later. "If you want."

"Good," he sighs. Sherlock is nearly completely gone when he lifts his head to brush my lips with a second kiss. The monitor _beeps _faintly when his heartbeat speeds up. I run one hand overs his mussed curls, pressing my forehead to his.

"Sleep. I'll see you tomorrow, okay? John and Mary are waiting to see you, but I'll tell them you're too tired." I kiss our combined hands, knowing that he hates such things, but doing it for my own sake. I stand, picking up my purse.

In his sleep, Sherlock looks moderately more relaxed. I smooth his forehead with one hand, pressing a final kiss on his cheek – something I've missed doing for almost two months. We won't simply fall back into old patterns – we can't, not again, not after a second estrangement. But this is something of a start. We are, at the very least, on a better footing than before. I leave, feeling a little lighter than when I came in.

**-XXX-**

The next evening I return to find that he's moved rooms. Concerned, I skid into the new room breathlessly, fully anticipating a more-critical Sherlock. Instead, I find him sitting up, dining on what appears to be a terrible tray of a grey Salisbury steak in an even grey-er gravey, peas, milk, and a Jell-o cup. He looks up when I enter, lifting a forkful of hamburger in greeting. A slightly exasperated John, who sits in the chair beside Sherlock's hospital bed, also lifts a hand. I approach warily.

"What's all this? When they told me they'd changed your room I thought you'd been upgraded to 'more-than-nearly-dead.'"

"Mmmh, nearly," Sherlock says before stabbing at his peas. "This is quite terrible."

"I'd expect so, yeah." I frown. "What do you mean, 'nearly?'"

"He means," John says wearily. "That your boyfriend decided to break out for a few hours yesterday and gave himself a bit internal bleeding."

Turning to Sherlock, I suppress the urge to slap him heartily. "Why in the bloody hell would you do that?"

"I had business to attend to," he replies vaguely. "Open this, would you?" He indicates the Jell-o with a wave. "Sick."

I pull up the tin lid without a word, slamming the plastic cut upon the tray when I've finished. He pointedly glances at me. I turn to John, having made the decision to defer all health-related questions to him. The poor man not only looks exhausted but a touch angry as well. Something tugs the corners of his mouth down unhappily. It strikes me that something beyond his best friend's second potential death in three years could be bothering him. I choose not to ask, knowing that he'll bring it up in time if he wishes.

"How is he? Stable?"

"Yeah. Called an ambulance, just in time. Ought to be out in about another four days or so."

Lightly, I hit Sherlock's shoulder. "You great git. The next time you need to pick up a paper let us know, eh? Don't rip out all of your surgeon's work."

"If he'd done good work I wouldn'tve suffered through internal bleeding only three hours out," the detective murmurs.

"They didn't stitch you up to send you back out to run about, Sherlock!" I sink to the foot of his bed, jostling his feet. "Don't be so stupid, please. I doubt any of us could take you nearly-dying again."

He sighs. "Very well. For the moment."

"Do you think you could handle four days without getting too bored?"

"I'll managed," he says.

I hardly believe him. With a sigh, I settle on the end of the bed. John rises, straightening his jacket.

"Now that you're here, I'll head out." He nods to both of us. As he walks out, I call back softly.

"Thank you, John. From both of us. And please tell Mary hello and thank you for me."

Something flashes over the young Doctor's face. Disgust. Discomfort. Anger. I nearly recoil from surprise. Then, it's gone, masked.

"Yeah," he says. "I will."

Then he leaves. After I'm sure he is well out of earshot, I turn to Sherlock.

"Is there something going on?" I ask delicately.

Sherlock doesn't look up from his dessert. "There's always something going on, Viola."

Impatient, I shake my head. "I mean with John and Mary. He seemed a little off…you know?"

"Every marriage has its struggles," he says, poking the red gelatin. "Even theirs. Especially in times such as these."

I narrow my eyes. "Sherlock Holmes, did you do something to John and Mary? Deduct some terrible secrets?"

He doesn't answer, choosing instead to push back his tray. "Ah, what I would give for some actual meat."

I choose to let my curiosity pass. "You must be truly injured," I say, amused. "I've never heard you verbally desire food before."

"The extremes I am pushed to," he laments.

With his dinner out of the way, I move to lay beside him on the bed. He scoots when I force him – not happily – and allows me to set my head on the pillow beside his. He laces fingers with mine when I offer forth a hand. I begin dozing off, glad that these last two emotionally draining and thoroughly terrifying days, feeling moderately relaxed for the first time in forty-eight hours.

"You called in to work?"

"Yeah," I murmur sleepily. The concern is unusual. I choose to appreciate it.

A short pause, then Sherlock turns his head to me. I can feel him shifting against the pillow. "You're mad with me."

"Not at the moment. But as soon as you're well again, you bet."

I can practically feel him smile. "Very well then."

**-XXX-**

**And so all is resolved and forgiven!...or not. We've still got a ways to go! **

**Thank you, as always, for reading, and reviews would be smashing! **


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

**ONE MORE CHAPTER! **

**Sorry for the delay (again) I've been roadtripping and working like crazy cakes. **

**Enjoy! It's a long one. **

**-XXX-**

He finds me after work one evening. I'd seen him in the crowd, sitting among the other diners, nursing a glass of something-or-other-red. He looks bored through the entire set. After our last song, I go to the bar instead of hanging backstage. He approaches, brows rising to see a glass of scotch in my hand.

"I wouldn't think I would ever find your prying eyes here," I say. "This isn't quite your scene. It's not so…uptight."

Mycroft takes up the stool beside me. "Did your take a cue from my brother in thinking that this teasing is appropriate? He's rubbing off on your far more than I'd anticipated."

I ignore the jab. There is an outline of a box in his left pocket – cigarettes. He's having a hell of a week. "What brings you here, Mycroft? Surely not our wine selection."

Lips curling, he swirled the contents of his glass. "I might have stopped by simply to observe my little brother's girlfriend." At the word "girlfriend," his lips upturn and I roll my eyes.

"So you've heard the happy news." It's been two weeks. He probably knew less than an hour after I'd gone to Sherlock's hospital room. "I take it you do not approve?"

"Whether I approve or not does not matter to either of you."

"Maybe not," I agree. "But I appreciate it. You've got valid reasons for not wanting us together."

"Reasons you choose to ignore." Not looking at me, he's peering about the restaurant with narrowed eyes.

"I'll be honest, I do not fully understand what the danger is. Neither of you will tell me abut this massive case, so I am a little in the dark here. While I trust at least one of you to a very limited extent, there is something fishy about this. Something neither you or Sherlock are telling me. Sherlock tells me nearly everything – mostly things I do not want know, but in this case…." I drift off. "It's frightening."

"Do you think perhaps there is a good reason for that?" he asks quietly. "You should be afraid, Viola. What Sherlock is messing with – _who _he is involving himself with – would strike fear in your heart if your knew."

"Magnussen," I whisper.

Mycroft darkens. "He's dangerous. Beyond dangerous. Stay away, Viola."

I grab his arm. "I am not avoiding Sherlock. We only just got back to a state of relative normal. I can't just…." I shake my head. "Besides, if he's going through hell, he shouldn't go through it alone. Whatever this is, I'm not just walking away."

"You may regret that when the time comes," he says.

"Maybe," I agree. "But that sort of comes with the territory."

He polishes off his wine, setting the glass on the bar and gesturing to the bartender, Karl. As he waits, Mycroft pulls out his cellphone. I sip my scotch, turning to the lingering diners. They're all taking, pushing food around their plates, drinking. Not knowing what darkness lay out in their city street. Simply enjoying the cool autumn night. I envy them.

"At least you can have an easy conscious knowing that you warned me," I say, attempting to be vaguely kind. It really does touch me that Mycroft was looking out for us, in his own way.

Mycroft does not look very comforted. "Yes, I shall rest easier at night. Would you care for a ride home?"

Surprised, I set down my glass. "Uh, yeah, that'd be lovely. Actually, could you take me to Baker's Street?"

I can tell by his expression that he doesn't really want to, but he nods and starts for the door, putting on his coat. Once outside, we've got a little while to wait for his car to come 'round. Wordlessly, Mycroft removes the pack of cigarettes from his left pocket, lighting up. The brief flare of orange light focuses with the aid of his hand cupped around the flame, illuminating his face briefly. The light revels a cast of fine lines forming around his mouth and eyes, normally hidden in the softer light of day. It makes him look older. Harsh.

How old is Mycroft? I've near really thought of it before. Past his thirties, I think, or at least late thirties. But not too much older than Sherlock – no, their rivalry and squabbling put them too close in age to make them more than a few years apart. I shall have to ask Sherlock.

He offers me a cigarette. I politely refuse, then less-politely say, "Those can kill you, you know."

"Most vices do, Ms. Carters," he replies, face again in shadow. "If you let them."

**-XXX-**

Sherlock is in bed when I arrive. He's taken to sleeping a lot more, lately. Following his doctor's orders, to my surprises, though I don't know if he means to. I suspect his weariness may be a side effect of the medication, which he appears to be taking as instructed as well. It is suspicious (only with Sherlock would abiding by a physician's instructions be a thing worthy of wariness) but positive. At this rate he may very well heal up as scheduled.

Mrs. Hudson, her hair wrapped in a towel, wearing a threadbare bathrobe, lets me in, only slightly irritated that I am bothering her so late in the evening.

"He's been awfully quiet for the last few hours," she says worriedly as I start up the stairs. "No explosions or music or crashing about or anything of the sort."

"I'm sure he's just a little tired," I assure her. "He's been a bit out of it lately, you know."

"It's funny that a person being calm and stable should be so concerning."

"He'll be as right as rain soon. Back to his old self in no time."

"And what a day that'll be," she murmurs as she starts back to her kitchen.

The door is unlocked. I slide in, dropping my purse on the couch. My coat quickly follows. Then my shoes. I trail down the hall, reaching the door to his room. It's open ajar. I peer inside, taking in the sight of Sherlock spread against the mattress. His mouth is a little open, hair mussed, limbs stretched across the sheets. I enter quietly, attempting not to let the door squeak. I fail; he jolts slightly, though its not enough to wake him. With light limbs, I remove everything but my underwear, then select one of his undershirts, pull it over my head, then sitting on the mattress beside him.

Sherlock blinks at me from the pillow, looking a little owl-ish. He frowns. "You were with Mycroft?"

It's a question, but it isn't. I sigh. "He came to my work. We had a talk."

"Mmm. Prick." Sherlock turns into the pillow, snuggling down. "I suppose he trie to convince you to report on my healing process."

"No, I'd say he's quite informed on that. He was asking me to swan off again."

Sherlock's frown deepens, sending him rolling back to look at me. "I do hope my elder brother is not envious and looking to have you for himself."

"That's hardly a imaginable scenario," I reply dryly. "As if he could have the opportunity to never see me again, I'm sure he would more than gladly take it. He's got other motivations, I'm afraid."

The consulting detective stills. "Oh. Yes. The case."

But he won't say anything else.

"The case neither your nor John will tell me about."

"Prying, are we?" He _tsks_. "You know John Watson will never give you what you want."

"Oh, yes," I agree. "So long as it's relatively harmless. If it's something too troubling to you…autumn he was more than ready to spill the beans."

"That was all a strategized maneuver aimed towards getting you to forgive me."

"What is this great conspiracy, Sherlock?" I ask softly, tired of the battle of wits – which I was losing miserably.

"I wouldn't necessarily call it a conspiracy."

"Then what shall it be called?" Pulling my knees up to my chest, I look out the windows. The half-moon is filtering a blue-white light into the room, mingling with the orange of the streetlamps, casting the room in a variety of deep and long shadows. "Mycroft has told me a little. But only a little."

"That's more than you should know."

I don't push him further, knowing it shall do little good. With a sigh, I sink onto the mattress beside him, still facing the windows.

"Is he right?" I whisper after several silent minutes. "Is whoever or whatever you're dealing with so dangerous that I shouldn't be here?"

He doesn't answer. Instead, Sherlock pulls closer to me, burying his head in the crook of my neck and shoulders, breathing deeply.

**-XXX-**

"More punch, dear?"

I look up from the clock I'd been staring at, startled. "What? Oh, no thank you, Mrs. Holmes."

"Please, call me Violet, dear," she clucks.

"Can I help with you anything? The pies, perhaps?" I ask. "I feel terrible, just sitting here while you're doing all the work do prepare such a lovely dinner."

Also, I'm a tad bored. I've sat at this stool for nearly twenty minutes as the Holmes bustled about their cottage kitchen. I've no clue where Sherlock might be, nor Mycroft, though John is here and I believe Mary is in the parlor. He's been brooding over a cup of tea beside me, staring at the scrubbed tabletop. Actually, he's been doing that a lot lately – brooding, I mean. Ever since Sherlock was shot, John Watson hasn't acted the least bit like himself. Particularly when he is out with his wife – which, I've hardly seen over the last two months. Today is one of only a handful of instances.

"Oh, no dear! You're the guest, sit, sit."

Except, I can't take much more sitting, and insist she lets me cut the potatoes. I stand across from John, who has moved on from gazing blankly at the table to the contents of his teacup.

He not acting at all like a person celebrating Christmas, nor an expectant father. Everything about John Watson is grey, grey, grey. It matches his wife's attitude lately, and it is quite depressing

Siger returns from the front garden, where he had been sent to fetch more wood for the fire. He smiles placidly around the room after setting down his load and giving his wife a peck on the cheek. Two months ago, when I'd ran across the Holmes parents at the hospital visiting their son, I'd understood where Sherlock had gotten his immense height. Now, I can see his sharper nature is from his mother, with whom he does not share the trait of friendliness.

It's absolutely stunning to me that (so far) I've found Sherlock's parents delightful. They are polite, warm, engaging – everything their two sons are not (at least, not without putting on an act). The brief time I spent with them in the hospital quickly convinced me that they are quite wonderful people. It was helpful that I had no warning of their arrival, as I'd have been terribly nervous had I known. But they quickly put me at ease.

**-XXX-**

"Oh, we've wanted to meet you for ages," Violet enthused, pulling me into a hug as I dumbly stared from the threshold. She smells like lilac. "Lovely Viola – Mycroft told us you were positively gorgeous."

Once I'm over the shock of a) meeting the parents of the Holmes boys, and b) the fact that Mycroft might describe me as "positively gorgeous," I smile at the pair, a little breathless.

"Sorry," I manage. "I didn't realize Sherlock had visitors. I'm sure you want some time –"

"Nonsense." Sherlock's mother pulled me further into the room. From the bed, Sherlock observed, eyebrows raised. I send him a less-than-charitable look. _"Thanks for the warning, arse." _He's well enough that I don't feel the least bit guilty.

"We're so glad to catch you while we're still in town. Sherlock has been keeping mum about you – embarrassed, I think, that his old mum and dad are so interested, but you did sound so lovely. He's not dated in ages, you know, so it was so wonderful to hear that he'd found such a sweet young woman. His brother was certainly singing your praises – which isn't something my Mike does lightly, let me tell you."

Sherlock's frown clues me into the fact that is was not, perhaps, "Mike's" approval of me that sent him raving, but rather, a desire to cause trouble for his younger sibling.

"That's very kind of him. I am terribly fond of Sherlock's elder brother." I cast a glance towards the consulting detective. Sherlock says nothing, but his nostrils flare slightly in amusement. "He doesn't come 'round often enough."

"Quite busy, you know," the man I would later know to be Siger replies. "All that government work…still, he likes it."

Both of them are beaming at me expectantly. I smile back, reaching from Sherlock's hand as I take up the chair nearest him. His limb lays like a dead fish in my hand.

"I am sorry to intrude," I begin. "They told me he was free."

"It is no matter! We are _so _pleased to meet you."

And I believe them.

"Tell me, what do you do with yourself?" Violet sits beside me. "Mycroft mentioned that you were still in school."

So I tell them. We chat for nearly an hour before Sherlock decides to speak.

"You're wearing her out, Mother," he says dully. Startled, we all turn to him, having forgotten he was there.

"Forgive me, dear," she replies lightly. "But you've told us nothing about her. Of course we must get to know her a little before we leave."

He grumbles, scowling as she leans forward to adjust his pillow.

"What a fright you have put us through," she scolds. "Nearly going off and dying – twice! Two times, never mind your poor parents and your girlfriend. Now, I shall get to know your lovely Viola, since you have not seen fit to properly introduce us." Turning to me, her eyes are bright. "Oh, but you must come up for Christmas!"

Surprised, I look to Sherlock, who is now impassive. "Oh, but, it's a time for family, and I couldn't –"

"But you must," she says firmly.

"Oh yes," Siger echoes with a wide and honest smile. "It would be jolly to have you about."

**-XXX-**

And that is how I've found myself peeling potatoes before the sink in the little red farm house, listening to Violet Holmes move about the kitchen in a graceful frenzy of pots, pans, and measuring cups. Once done with the potatoes I move on to making Mary a new cup of tea. She's been alone in the sitting room for sometime now, reading. John hasn't been near her since they arrived two hours ago.

The distance between the couple has been felt by me for months. Sherlock won't say a word, only that they have a few "unresolved issues." I hear Mrs. Hudson (who, on this holiday, has gone to Florida to visit a few friends. It hasn't changed much around 221 Baker Street in the five days she's been gone, except that Sherlock is left yelling "TEA, MRS. HUDSON" to thin air that will not be a flutter and rush off to fix him up) referring to their spat as a "little domestic," as she passes back downstairs when John pops 'round. She doesn't know anymore than I, I think. Mary has been mum as well. Though she's a warm and friendly as ever, there is a certain something off about her disposition. A threatening sadness, as though she's on the edge of bursting into tears at anymore.

She's huge at the moment, carrying a watermelon-sized lump beneath her green-and-red patterned dress. I cannot blame her for setting up camp in the sitting room, though I do fault John for leaving her lonely.

Once the kettle screams, I hastily remove a mug from the cupboard as Mrs. Holmes directs me to. Turning to John, I inquire after Mary's tea preference. He seems to shake himself from his reverie.

"Ah, Earl Grey will do it," he mumbles, straightening the hem of his brown velvet jacket (a true sign the couple hasn't been communicating, as if they had Mary would have never let him walk out of the house with that thing on).

I nod, filling the mug.

Mycroft appears at that moment, coming down from the upstairs. He looks around the kitchen with schooled disinterest. I turn from the tea to look at him, brows raised. He arrived this morning, shortly after breakfast, and has done a good job of pretending I don't exist. Though he's only been here a few hours, most of that time has already been spent on his laptop, likely finishing up some serious top-secret government business.

"Oh, you look fine Mike," Violet says from the stove, where she's currently tending to the gravy, stirring the brown-ish-grey-ish liquid in a steady circular motion with a wooden spoon.

"Thank you, Mother," he answers primly.

I hid a smile as I stir sugar into my own tea. His green corduroy trousers certainly fit within the theme. I wonder if this is Mycroft's own fashion coming out, or if he's simply indulging his parents. Either are adorable notions.

"Wherever is your brother?"

I can tell by the patient expression on his face that this is a question Mycroft Holmes has been asked approximately one million times over the course of his life. The woes of having a mischievous younger brother (and how! Violet and Siger had regaled me of tales of some of Sherlock's more shocking childhood schemes).

"I shall find him."

"I'm going to take this to Mary," I announce. "I'll be back in a moment."

Bill helps me load the mugs onto a small tray, setting out sugar and milk, which he was kind enough to fetch for me. Mary, I know, is fond of milk in her tea.

I find the expectant mother propped up on the sofa, reading a magazine. She glances up, wide-eyed, when I push open the door. There is a slip of something in her gaze that suggests a faint disappointment when she notes that it's simply me.

"Oh, hello, Viola" she says, shifting.

"I brought you some fresh tea. I figured your last cup would've been cold by now."

At this, she brightens. "Thank you!"

I sit beside her, passing over the mug, balancing my own on the coffee table. She doctors her beverage accordingly, putting in quite a bit of cream – just as I'd predicted. For a few moments, we sip the warm amber brew in contentment.

"So, your first holiday together," I begin lightly. "And your last one before being a mom."

A hand slides over her stomach, and Mary smiles a little wistfully. "Yeah. But holidays are so much more exciting with kids, I think. We'll see."

"Two more months, right?"

"Just about."

We laps into silence again. Then, after a moment, I venture to ask, "Is everything okay, Mary? You and John seem a little…." I drift off, letting her fill in the blank.

She stares at the fire, where Siger has only just replaced a few pieces of wood. Then, as if remember my question, she shakes herself, looking back at me with a heartbreaking smile. "We're in a bit of a rough patch, yeah. But nothing we can't get out of."

But I can hear the uncertainty in her voice. Still, I nod encouragingly. "If anyone can, I know you and John Will. I'm sure it's just so much right now, being newlyweds with a baby….."

"Yeah," she replies faintly. "A little overwhelming. Will dinner be soon, Vi?"

"Just about a half-hour." I rise, sensing my dismissal. "Let me know if you need anything."

Mary smiles. "Of course."

Just before I reach the door to the kitchen John appears, passing over the threshold. He's got a determine look on his face. He moves past me, murmuring a "excuse me," heading down the hall for his wife. I enter the kitchen without looking back, waving to Siger, who sits on the red couch before the second fireplace, as I pass.

Bill is making everyone another round of punch. Violet, who has moved on from the gravy to the pudding, is talking to him.

"Oh, yes, another would be lovely. After I get back – I'm going to pop out front to check on the boys for a moment. No clue what they could be getting up to, really – Oh, Viola-dear!" She smiles as she places the pudding into the tiny oven, leaning against the powder-blue cabinets. "Why don't you go and wash up? We'll be eating shortly. I'll send Sherlock up after you, perhaps you can convince him to do something about that hair of his."

I find it quite comical that she believes I can convince Sherlock to do much of anything, but I assure her I shall try. Bill shares a knowing look with me as I set off for the stairs. From the staircase, I can hear Violet's voice in a mother-like reprimand calling from the foyer, "_SMOKING? Really?" _I suppress a smirk as I move down the hall towards our room.

We arrived last night, not long after supper. Sherlock had accepted his parent's affectionate embraces like one might accept an eel being handed to them. I was hugged with an equal enthusiasm. We were corralled into the parlor, where we remained for an hour or two, given warm drinks and biscuits. Once it was determined that we were quite tired, Siger showed us to our room.

In the corner of the house, it overlooked the back garden. Whitewashed walls, it was very clean and neat. I ran my fingers along the seems of the fresh blue quilt on the bed, examining every surface. There were several bookshelves. A trunk at the end of the bed, quite old, covered in travel stickers. A framed map of the world hung across the room, and there were several other worldly sort of knickknacks, including an ivory-handled magnifying glass on the bedside table. I picked it up, peering at Sherlock.

"Is this your old room?" I had asked abruptly.

His brows had risen. "Why do you ask?"

I shrug, too lazy to share my exact method of deduction. He knows, anyways, why. It's the starkness, along with the slight marks of childhood – a cricket ball, the picture of a big woolly dog, a few academic medals, the box of newspaper clippings hiding in the closet - sentimental items, likely kept at the insistences of his mother.

"It was," he finally said. "They've turned into a sort of guest room. It's far cleaner, I suppose. Better than Mycroft's room. It's not a room for my mother's sewing things, and my father's collection of post-World War I postcards."

I grinned. "Poor Mycroft."

Now, in the early afternoon light, there was something quite pure about the room. A brightness enhanced by the paint, I think. Before washing up, I sat beside the window, looking out, calmly taking in the scene of the stark winter countryside. It possess its own prettiness, in a dreary sort of way, with grey skies, black skeletal trees, and the barest breath of whiteness from the threatening snow, which powders the roofs and browning lawns of all structures.

It is this view I am absorbing when Sherlock enters. When he spots me by the window, he frowns.

"Did your mother catch you?" I ask wryly. "Foolish, smoking in the front walkways in broad daylight."

"Hmm," he agrees, distracted. "Viola, are you ready for dinner?"

"Nearly. Your mother wanted me to tell you to brush your hair."

He sweeps one hand through it carelessly, doing little to improve the black mop of curls. Approaching me, he sinks to the bench before the window. I scoot closer, inhaling the distinct scent of nicotine, smoke, and brandy. He smells like vice. Without warning, I lean up to kiss him lightly. Sherlock puts a hand to the back of my skull, fingers sinking into my hair. I smile against his lips as we go on, happy to finally have a moment alone after spending so many hours surrounded by people. Being with Sherlock isn't quite like having some personal alone time, but it's near enough, especially during occasions such as this. I close my eyes, pressing into him, enjoying the feel of his fingers playing against my ribs, him nosing my jaw between open-mouthed kisses -

Then, I begin to feel…funny. Lightheaded, really. At first I think it's the alcohol. Not my blood sugar – Violet has been stuffing us with all kinds of pastries and sausages. Then again, wouldn't the alcohol not affect me so terribly? Perhaps it's just weariness then. But I suspect something more sinister when blackness begins creeping around the edge of my vision. Sherlock catches me when I start to drop, half-carrying me to the bed.

"Sherlock," I slur as he lays me across the mattress. "Wha –"

"You'll be fine," he assures me in an unusually soothing voice. That's when I truly start to get scared. "It's just a little sedative cocktail Bill whipped up this morning. No harm. You'll wake up in about an hour."

Panic rises within me. "No…"

"Don't struggle." His fingertips brush my temple. "You'll wake up soon. Just go to sleep, Viola. It's easier if you let it happen. I'll be back here when you wake up."

I fight it, trying desperately to remain conscious. Sherlock stands, stepping back from the bed. I protest.

"What – what," I manage. My tongue feels heavy, my eyelids leaden. "Are you doing? W-wh-why?"

Something flickers over his normally impassive face. "I'll be here when you wake up," he repeats.

**-XXX-**

**I am very sleep deprived, so grammar may have fallen to the wayside. **

**Love writing Sherlock and Mycroft's parents. Their names were found in my research of Sherlock's family. I quite like them. The Viola-Violet thing is purely coincidental. **

**Reviews would be appreciated more than ever – stressful weeks ahead! **


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